


Halla Statuettes and Mabari Figurines

by AdmiralAnarchy



Series: Reliquaries and Remembrances [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Amnesia, Chronic Illness, Dorian Pavus Feels, Dragon Age Headcanons, Emotional Baggage, Ensemble Cast, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Sexual Hangups, Smut, but also canon compliant, the Inquisitor does in fact Lift
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:35:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 60
Words: 127,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21978184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdmiralAnarchy/pseuds/AdmiralAnarchy
Summary: In which Thedas is saved through the power of friendship, and some other more practical things.The Inquisition is in love with its very kind Inquisitor, the Inquisitor needs a nap, the Companions agree, and Corypheus does not.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Series: Reliquaries and Remembrances [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1857721
Comments: 237
Kudos: 295





	1. The Herald

**Author's Note:**

> Been playing this game nonstop despite being very late to this party but hey that just means if I stop updating this fic no harm no foul right anyway so
> 
> This follows canon (to an extent) as well as adding all the extra bits I wish were in the game. 
> 
> Forgive any mistakes (but do point them out) as I am not betaing this and literally am just writing it to get it off my chest.

Maker have mercy- things had gone spectacularly wrong and it wasn't even noon.

The Chantry in Redcliffe had been unused for a good month or two, making it an ideal place for some illicit meet-ups. Nobody had said it was unused because of the _giant rift just below the vaulted ceilings._ Maybe he could have asked first.

Dorian would have turned and shut the door on this mess, especially when the first demon oozed out of a pile of green Fade goop splattered on the ground. Unfortunately, he was a curious man, and he had been meaning to dabble in the newest and strangest phenomena to grace all of Thedas. Rifts in the Veil! How novel. He just… wasn't expecting to do the dabbling right now before he was possibly meeting with the Herald of Andraste. 

But the Herald could reject his offers and turn him away, making a chance like this harder to come by. As lovely as it may be given that the demons _would not stop pouring out_. 

The Herald could also ignore his letter completely too. Which, as his battle against seemingly endless demons and wraiths dragged on, seemed more and more likely.

He could feel himself wearing down, sweat beginning to bead between his shoulder blades and his breath coming harder as he fought wave after wave of demons. He hadn't had this much exertion in years. He just hoped he could keep up. He might actually die.

That would certainly complicate a few things.

The doors creaked open and Dorian greeted without looking, "ah, good, you're here. Help me close this, will you?" He immolated one more wraith before turning to properly greet (and get a look at) who he hoped was the Herald of Andraste.

He was met by a Dalish elf instead. 

The irony of it all was not lost on him, and it took more willpower than necessary to keep his face from revealing anything. Oh, _my_ , the Chantry must _love_ this-

"You did well, we'll take it from here," the Herald said with a cold smile, clapping a gentle and not glowing hand on Dorian's shoulder while the other more glowy one unsheathed an absurdly long claymore.

With a swing he cleaved a path to the rift and lifted up his hand, light arcing from it the same otherworldly green as the rift. A bright tether of lightning formed slowly between the Herald's hand and the core of the tear, humming and then screeching and then bursting apart into a smoldering fire, wisping away all traces of Fade. The only things remaining were the occasional pouches of… he'd rather not know what, as well as a faint burnt smell.

He was incredibly thankful the Herald brought company to deal with the demons, because he had never been so transfixed by anything in his life.

"Fascinating- how do you do that?" His fingers twitched, wanting to take the Herald's hand and inspect the glowing mark himself. Somehow he doubted he'd be allowed to get that close. At the sheepish look that passed over the elf's face he couldn't help but laugh, "you don't actually know then, do you? You just raise your hand, wiggle your fingers, and boom- the rift closes."

"There's less finger wiggling than you think," the Herald chuckled, but the mirth didn't quite make it to his eyes. 

Now that he wasn't under the imminent threat of death, Dorian got a better look at the elf. Half a head shorter, a claymore strapped to his back that was just as long as him, lithe and lean, a shock of bright red hair in a neat if militaristic undercut, a tattoo- what was the name- over one of two glacial blue eyes. There was a thick and jagged scar across the full of one cheek and a sliver of it running through the bottom of his lips, which were quirked in an easy, diplomatic smile. He was a pretty thing in the way all elves seemed to be; wild and yet oddly regal in the way they carried themselves and elegantly sharp in the way all their angles met. His stoic face betrayed nothing, but Dorian could see that he was being appraised just as well.

He should have taken a moment to fix his hair.

"How rude of me to not introduce myself. My name is Lavellan, and you are?"

A woman scoffed from behind the Herald, the disgust clear in her voice, "careful with this one. He's a Tevinter mage."

"You have suspicious friends," Dorian muttered before attempting to return to something a bit more grandiose and friendly. "I am Dorian Pavus of house Pavus." He needed to make an impression, and a good one at that.

It was time to try to make an ally, after all.

An ally that he not only trekked all the way to the most miserable settlement in the land for (that they had the _gall_ to call Haven), but had also accidentally fallen through time with not long after joining him in confronting the few friends he had left. Most people would stretch these types of things out, but he imagined there was no reprieve for the Herald of Andraste and anyone caught in the eye of the storm with him. Instead, he found himself in a dank, filthy dungeon with the man he'd interacted with only twice before and for a few moments each at best.

"The question then is not where we are, but when. It's all quite curious."

"It sounds," the Herald frowned and glanced around. "Not good."

Dorian nodded, "it sounds terrible."

Lavellan was quiet for a few moments, worry beginning to seep past the blank mask, his posture tensing. "I don't know anything about magic. This all seems…"

Dorian gently touched Lavellan's elbow, "you have me don't you? No matter what, I _will_ protect you. We will make it back to our original time, you can seal the breach, the Elder One can go mope as his plans are foiled, and we can all go celebrate, preferably with lots of alcohol."

He'd tried to be reassuring, hoping to share some of his bravado with his companion, give some hope to their situation. He was genuine with his sentiments, though he hadn't meant to be so forward, and Lavellan's blatant look of surprise had him feeling like he may have overdone it. 

It was Dorian's turn to be surprised when Lavellan returned the touch, eyes set with renewed determination and his hand warm against his. The mask was gone and Dorian had removed it and Lavellan was smiling a real, _genuine_ smile. "I'll trust you to get us through. You do have a plan to get us back, right?" It sent a light thrill up his spine.

Oh, he had so many ideas, mostly pertaining to the situation at hand, but a few involved the Herald in less dire scenarios and a whole host of other expressions. "I have some thoughts. They're lovely thoughts. Like little jewels."

Lavellan nodded and gave Dorian's hand a gentle squeeze before gesturing to the door. Together they walked through various winding and uncomfortably damp hallways, no other sound but the drip on the stone and the splash of their footsteps. They passed by piles of bones, ominous splatters of blood, and more torture devices than he'd even thought existed, and yet the passageways still stretched on. Things were taking a distinctly red tint the further they went, and Dorian couldn't help his wonder, morbid as it was. 

"Have you seen this before? Red lyrium! I've only ever read about it. Not like there's really much to read, though. I knew it existed but it's another thing entirely to see it. And coming out of the walls, no less."

Lavellan hummed, "I'd seen it back at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I've been told it's not the best thing to touch."

"Ah, yes, the Conclave, when you heroically walked out of the Fade, Andraste herself behind you."

"I prefer the phrase 'heroically stumbled and then fell unconscious'."

Thank the Maker the Herald had a sense of humor about this- or he was just very polite. It was all very refreshing regardless. It did occur to him that this was the first time he'd truly had a moment alone with the man, and likely the only one he'll ever have again. The glow of Lavellan's hand tugged at Dorian's latent and unquenchable curiosity like it was on a string. 

"The mark on your hand," Dorian began, unable to resist. Lavellan grunted in acknowledgment and so he continued his question, "may I see it?"

Lavellan paused, then shrugged and held out his hand. "Why not?"

Dorian eagerly took the offered hand, inspecting it from every angle he could. The foreign magic in the mark thrummed and pulsed to a discordant beat opposite of Lavellan's pulse, thumping away faintly under his skin, under Dorian's fingertips. The mark itself was hard to look at directly, like a miniature rift in his palm, wisps of magic leaking from the edge like smoke, tiny arcs of lightning dancing along the edges. It was incredible up close, and without thinking Dorian trailed his fingertips along the edge of it.

It crackled softly, underlying magic whispering in a way he couldn't understand but all of that was lost in the way Lavellan jerked away. That pained look- "the mark hurts you?"

"No," Lavellan's reply was automatic, practiced, but as he looked away quickly he seemed to relent, "well, a little. It used to hurt worse, until Solas helped and the Breach was stabilized."

Dorian had no idea who this Solas was but was very interested in how he helped. "And now?"

"Now it just feels as though my hand is on fire."

"That… doesn't sound any better." He couldn't imagine what it felt like before.

Lavellan frowned, looked down at his hand, then shrugged again. "I suppose not, but there's not much else to do about it."

"I suppose not." Dorian made a mental note to find whoever this Solas was as they lapsed back into their quiet trudging.

They found the Seeker Cassandra in one lonely cell, robotically reciting the chants while they found another elf, Sera as he was told, further in. Strange trails of red seeped from them like a sickly aura, burning deep in their glassy eyes, and neither he nor Lavellan understood what exactly it meant until they found Fiona. Encased in a living, singing crystal of red lyrium, managing to spare the date through the haze of pain. Lavellan left with a gentle promise, but his steps were thunderous, and everytime he looked back at his two red companions his hands would ball into fists and the mark would crackle. His stoicism was an oppressive blanket and no amount of conversation would break his silence, not that Dorian still didn't try his hardest. 

The Nightingale Leliana wasn't faring much better when they found her further in, hanging from the rafters of a torture chamber, red lyrium and blood splattered like a twisted mosaic around her. She was prematurely aged and hardened, cold and distant. Much had changed in the single year in which they were gone and she was tightlipped about everything but the barest necessary details. 

From the little she did spill, it was all much worse than they ever thought possible.

And it just got better the further in they went.

Alexius had been busy, and had fortified himself well. Of course, Dorian loved a good challenge, but he'd hit a standstill: a door that would not easily open without magical intervention. To think he'd be stopped by a door, and a magic one at that. Of course it wasn't just any old door, and he did have a few ideas on how to open it (or at least go around it), but the plan with the highest rate of success was short just a single shard of red lyrium. 

Ah, but Dorian- he thought sardonically, kicking an empty helmet absently- there's red lyrium _everywhere_. It's coming from the ceiling and the walls and from the bare of Sera's arms and the edges of the Seeker's eyes. Singing a siren song into the depths of his brain, inescapable and utterly maddening. Who knows, it may be growing out of him too soon enough. Surely, there were no deficit of red lyrium crystal shards here.

Unfortunately, the shards they had found were different than the crystals forming throughout the castle and its inhabitants. The ones found on the bodies of casters emanated a magic pulse of their own. A volatile kind. An explosive kind. The kind perfect for opening doors that weren't easily opened by other means. He just needed one more to tip it all over the edge and blast the door right off its hinges. 

But they'd hit a dead end. 

Dorian stared at the smoldering fireplace and frowned, hands on his hips and fingers drumming patterns as he contemplated his options. He could hear people in the room beside them, mostly just screaming and diabolical laughter but still people sounds, and he was positive the last shard would be in that room, in the pocket of a caster who seemed to be having a grand time. The door was probably locked, not like it mattered with all the red lyrium spikes barricading it, and there were no other ways in.

They were so close, and yet…

"I'll have to find another method", Dorian sighed, raising his hands in defeat. Sera muttered something unintelligible as Leliana continued to ignore him. Lavellan made a distracted 'hm' but continued inspecting the dividing wall. Cassandra's face remained unchanged where she watched The Herald work. "Perhaps there is another way in, we can keep looking for a servants door."

"Uh huh," Lavellan said, still inspecting the wall between the rooms like it held all the secrets in the world. Maybe it did. 

"We could go back to the main hall-" Lavellan's noise of surprised delight cut him off. 

Dorian frowned at the interruption as Lavellan handed his claymore wordlessly to Cassandra. Planting his feet, he lifted his leg and in a smooth movement kicked the wall. Stones flew effortlessly and caused a sizeable tumble of masonry, leaving a hole big enough to walk through. He took his claymore back and stepped through, leaving Dorian to stand dumbly as the sounds of carnage replaced the evil laughter. He'd never seen such a display of raw physical strength like that, and from someone so-

Sera snickered at his expression before joining the two warriors and their bloodbath, and he found himself still floored by the time Lavellan returned, the first smile on his face after what felt like forever and a red lyrium shard in his bloody hands. "I hope this helps. I trust your skills, Dorian," Lavellan encouraged, a satisfied lilt in his voice, "let's go home."

_Maker please_ , Dorian thought as his heart thumped a bit too heavily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody comments on the fact that warriors can just
> 
> Kick down walls?


	2. Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this has been done by everyone who has ever Inquisited but oh well

Haven was _quaint_ in every manner of the word. It was also cold, dirty, and held together by little more than hopes and dreams. He couldn't believe he'd ever find himself here. _Willingly_ , no less.

Dorian shuffled closer to the fire near the apothecary and shivered. 

He'd claimed a small corner in the potions storage but it did nothing to shelter him from the drafts. Despite everything he thought he knew about how buildings worked, it was somehow warmer outside by the small fire than inside that miserable shack. It made no sense. Luckily he had more than a fire to keep him warm tonight.

" _There's nobody else I'd rather be stuck in time with."_

The look of approval on Lavellan's face, the sincerity in which he welcomed him, the _smile_ crinkling the edges of his eyes and dimpling his scarred cheeks. The Herald of Andraste himself had been quick to point out Dorian's skills and how much he had helped whenever the subject was broached, which it was, many times. " _I wouldn't be here now without him._ " Those words alone made him almost believe his decision would be well worth whatever Haven could throw at him. 

Blustering winds? Frigid chill? Disapproving glares wherever he walked? Scandalized Chantry Sisters _and_ Mothers? He'd already been called a blood mage six times in the last two days

All in all, not as bad as it could be. Not with Lavellan, Herald of Andraste, looking at him like he was a hero. He always was weak to approval from beautiful people. 

The not so distant sounds of bickering caught his ears over the groaning wind. Curious, Dorian looked over and found Solas (who did a wonderful job at ignoring him at all times) and Lavellan locked in a simmering debate. They were speaking too softly to eavesdrop- not like he _should_ be eavesdropping- but whatever it was it was certainly quite the discourse. Eventually the two elves departed with curt farewells, Solas going back to stare at the Breach and brood, and Lavellan to walk Dorian's way with a sigh.

"Fancy meeting you here."

That got Lavellan's attention as well as a few tired chuckles. "I could say the same about you. I didn't think you'd stick around."

"And miss out on all of the fun? Hardly. The Inquisition supporting free mages- it's exciting. It's as if you've given them the license to be like the ones back home."

"I suppose I haven't had too many negative experiences around mages so far," said with a smile just on the border of coy. 

"It's certainly welcome, but still… unexpected."

"I've been told everything about me is unexpected."

"Yes, what with being Dalish? Is that the correct word here?"

Dorian really hoped that the sudden stiffening of Lavellan's shoulders was simply a figment of his imagination and not the result of him being culturally insensitive. 

"It is, yes." 

"I hope it won't be an issue-" with my being from Tevinter, he wanted to add, "I'm here to help with the Venatori, after all."

Lavellan's shoulders relaxed just a little, "of course not. I appreciate the help." A thoughtful look crossed his face. "Though it occurs to me that I know nothing about you."

"Aside from my being so charming and well-dressed," Dorian preened, relishing the tiny blush it earned him.

"I noticed that, yes," Lavellan glanced away sheepishly. "I'd like to know a bit more though."

"Certainly, ask me anything you'd like." If there was one thing he loved it was getting to talk about himself.

Except the more Lavellan asked and the more he said the deeper the elf's frown got. It didn't seem to matter if it was information about Tevinter or information about Dorian either, the glimpses of sadness and sometimes outright disgust (perhaps mentioning slavery to a Dalish elf was a horrible idea- but he'd rather Lavellan hear from _him_ and not a rumor) were beginning to have him concerned about his decisions. Let alone his thoughtless mention of the whole selective breeding thing…

He'd be surprised if Lavellan wanted to talk to him again after all of this enlightening chatter.

Just when he thought it was getting to be too much, Lavellan saw something behind Dorian and the deep frown was replaced by his usual neutrality with alarming speed. Dorian glanced back to see who or what caught Lavellan's attention but didn't know if Seeker Cassandra was a blessed or tragic interruption. 

"We'll have to continue this at a later time, Dorian," Lavellan said, lips tilted up in that gentle smile, but painfully fake. It wasn't much of a consolation and Dorian mourned the flirting and laughter he had lost.

"Yes, well, you know where I'll be." At least until he was asked to leave. Likely not politely either. He wondered if he'd get an escort of normal Inquisition soldiers or the few Templars he'd seen milling about.

A few hours later a soldier, face twisted in revulsion, was knocking on the door of the shack he had holed up in and was handing him a small missive. He'd been asked to join the Herald of Andraste on a trip back to the Hinterlands. While it wasn't a place he was eager to get back to, he got ready to depart anyway, secretly thankful he hadn't scared Lavellan away so soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to avoid too many word for word conversations from the game cos where's the fun in that?


	3. The Hinterlands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year

The Hinterlands were still warm despite the encroaching winter, but it was a very loose application of the word. The winds tearing their way through the valleys left a chill so deep, Dorian felt as though his very bones had frosted over. He was still thankful his conversation with Lavellan had gone well enough to land him a spot in the party regardless of the locale. Even if all they had done so far was kill wildlife, strangers, and the local vegetation. 

The gentle snips of Lavellan's knife cut through the distant birdsong. Dorian dutifully kept the burlap sack open and awaited each dainty leaf, stem, and root.

He supposed they hadn't just been running around murdering things. They delivered potions and letters and rings and found a few astrariums and an ocularum (even though a group of renegade Templars cut in before he could truly investigate the device). They also didn't kill that druffalo, even though it had been a very, _very_ close thing. All this romping around had left his feet aching and his heart oddly warm and fuzzy. That particularly was a curious thing he found himself pondering during quiet times like these. He couldn't say he was used to being a hero, or more accurately the sidekick to the hero.

Lavellan shuffled over to the next stalk of elfroot and began his work again.

"Don't you have men for this?"

"I do," Lavellan replied. "Lots of men, in fact. And women too."

"And none could be trusted to go out and trim the local flora for you?"

Lavellan went silent but didn't stop his work.

Eventually, when Varric and Cassandra's bickering carried faintly from the distance he finally responded. "It's relaxing. Things like this- finding minerals and picking herbs and cleaning graves. It's all relaxing."

"Mindless labor?"

"Yes," Lavellan stood and dusted off his leather gloves. A perfect hole had been burned through the palm of one, green seeping around the leather. "Mindless labor doesn't ask me to do more than what I'm already doing. It doesn't call me a Herald of someone I know nothing about, or a knife ear, or a rabbit, or 'your worship'." The mask was off and Dorian was getting another peek at the real Lavellan. Gone was the neutral diplomacy and measured surety, and while the gentleness was still there, a look of exhaustion and bitterness hung from the corners of his lips and the shadows under his eyes. "I'm free out here, as much as I can be. I can choose my company, do what I want and need to do to help, and can fight my own battles."

Dorian felt like he shouldn't be seeing Lavellan like this. "People really call you a rabbit to your face? How bold." He just wasn't sure if it was because it looked wrong or if it was all just too vulnerable. Vulnerable things needed to be kept safe. Secret. Hidden from the world, not shared with anyone. Even him. 

Especially him.

Lavellan snorted and grimaced, "someone once demanded I bring them a glass of wine before they noticed who I was."

"I hope you made them beg for forgiveness and fetch _you_ a glass of wine. I certainly would have."

"How tyrannical. The look on their face was well worth the insult."

"Satisfied only with funny faces? I may be a tyrant but you are far too kind for your own good," Dorian said in jest, but based on what he had gleaned so far (which arguably wasn't much), Lavellan had a bleeding heart. It would kill him one day, he was sure- if the weight of the world didn't get to him first.

"Perhaps." With one last snip of the knife, Lavellan dumped the rest of the elfroot clippings into Dorian's sack. "We shouldn't keep Cassandra and Varric waiting together for too long. They are beginning to sound antsy."

"I'm honestly surprised you managed to keep them from murdering each other. So far, at least."

"They have an odd relationship," Lavellan's brow furrowed as he added, "or something along those lines."

"They have a strikingly similar relationship as oil has with fire."

"Yes, but I think they still care for each other- to some capacity." The sounds of angry bickering only got louder the closer they got. Hopefully it wouldn't attract any Prowlers or worse- _bears_. Dorian would very much like to not run into one of those again, thank you very much. "Somewhat." The tips of Lavellan's ears pinkened as the insults got more… _personal_. "Maybe."

Cassandra and Varric schooled themselves the moment they caught sight of Lavellan, the former greeting him in a tone that was almost friendly and the latter breaking out into a wide grin. "Smiles! Sparkler! And here I was thinking you both got lost."

"Just restocking the elfroot supply," Lavellan replied with an equally wide grin. The kind Dorian supposed was reserved only for times outside Haven and only for certain company. "Afraid I'd left you to the wolves?"

"I think I would have preferred that," Varric laughed mirthlessly while Cassandra growled. "Anyway, we found something you might like."

"Oh?" Cassandra was the one to slip whatever it was from a pouch on her side, handing Lavellan a little bundle of cloth with a satisfied half-smile. They both were looking entirely too pleased. The elf was careful when unwrapping it, and froze with wide-eyed surprise upon its reveal. A palm sized glass statue of a halla, shimmering in the dappled light. Lavellan's entire demeanor changed in an instant as he laughed and held it up to the sun with genuine glee. "I love it! Where in Thedas did you find this?"

"Trust me, Smiles, you don't want to know."

Hours later- after a grueling fight against a trio of Prowlers attracted to all the noise- back at the lakeside camp and tucked into a smelly bedroll next to a snoring Varric, Dorian would remember that smile. The laughter. The way Lavellan marvelled at a glass bauble as if it were a treasure. He decided he rather liked seeing Lavellan instead of the Herald.


	4. Apples and Fine Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not knowing how to shut up combined with a desire to help with words but not knowing the right ones is one hell of a combo.
> 
> Also, apples

Dorian was, as a great many people would attest, the type of reader that could only be described as "voracious". If there was a block of text, he'd be reading it, regardless if it was Varric's smutty books, some ancient tome, or even one of the many blood soaked letters found beside a dead person. Those especially were his favorite for the gossip material alone. A templar and an apostate writing love letters in the middle of a rebellious war? The _scandal._

Needless to say, he eagerly peeked at anything wordy Lavellan found and promptly set down. Somehow this meant that he had done more reading in the last week than he had in about a month. It was as if there was some sort of buzzer that went off everytime Lavellan neared a book- or plant, or rock, or fouled paper, or bag of junk, and even occasional abandoned bottle of alcohol. Lavellan was a bloodhound, veering off the path constantly just to go investigate whatever odd thing somehow caught his attention from several yards away. 

The elf was a dry wick, sponging up everything he could in his quest to reunify and restore the Hinterlands simply because he was asked to.

In the end, it all seemed like just a few more of those little things to add to the stack that was Lavellan. A growing myriad of coalescing threads weaving an intricate puzzle of a person that he was just itching to unravel. Between the fascinating rift in his hand capable of closing other rifts, the curious ability to sniff out secrets most would pass by, and that mysterious background he dodged around... Then there was all that business with him being so unbearably kind at times. He was polite, more than he had any reason to be, and it never failed to leave people reeling and just a little bit starry eyed. At first, Dorian wondered if maybe everyone had it backwards and the Herald was actually doing all the conniving and manipulations. However, Lavellan was almost doggedly uninterested in religion, titles, and being worshipped, and the witty snark he was capable of when out and about had him reconsidering his theory a few days in. Not fully throwing it out though, as Lavellan seemed the type to play the long game. 

An apple was suddenly pushed into his hands, breaking him from his absent gazing over the cliffside towards the battered landscape below them, not far from the lakeside camp.

"The farmers here are nice," Lavellan said before taking a hearty crunch from the one in his hand. "Though I think they gave me too many."

Another thing the Herald of Andraste did. Going out of his way and never asking for any recompense. People simply told him what they needed or wanted and he'd go off and do it without even hearing the reward. Oh, you need bandits stopped? Sure. Bundles of blankets? Of course. Ram meat? Not a problem. He rarely asked why, if he did it was usually just for clarification, and he didn't turn any requests down no matter how silly.

It was what made Dorian think that maybe- just _maybe_ , Lavellan was doing this purely for philanthropic reasons.

A curious thing indeed.

He certainly was never rewarded for it in any grand way, usually just many thanks, well wishes, and on occasion whatever could be scraped up. It worked well enough, Lavellan never asked for anything, and rarely accepted anything that was too valuable- which often resulted in these smaller gestures, like bags of apples, when word of mouth wasn't enough.

Small things seemed to brighten Lavellan's mood the most. More so than the one time they were given a bag of gold for their troubles.

"Lavellan, as much as I love a good wander through the countryside being paid in fruits and offhand compliments," Dorian asked while rolling the apple between his hands, "why go out yourself to do all this? Really? This isn't mindless labor."

Lavellan wiped a bit of juice from his lip with his thumb, mulling it over for a long minute. "Would you believe it if I said I did it entirely for selfish reasons?"

"I'd say you were a liar, and a bad one at that."

Lavellan grinned and took another bite from the fruit and led the way back to the camp while not answering his question at all. Varric and Cassandra were already there ahead of them, talking in conspiratorially low voices with Scout Harding and a few other Inquisition scouts. There were another three bags of apples between them.

"Were you paid _entirely_ with fruit?"

Lavellan replied with a crunch.

"Ah! There you two are," Varric waved upon noticing them, hurrying over and… standing in their way. "How about I take that bag off your hands, Smiles." 

Lavellan raised an eyebrow but let his payment for tree-saving go without a fuss. "Is there something wrong?" 

"Of course not." Varric dismissed the question with a snort. He didn't move out of the way. "But, the requisition officer over here was wondering if you could go look for a bit of Embrium for her. There's some around the hill."

For a moment, Dorian thought Lavellan would say no. He'd been running around saving orchards and fighting wolves and pulling swords out of lakes all day- the man deserved a nice sit. Instead he sighed, "I suppose I could grab some."

"Thanks, Smiles, you're a life saver. Literally." As soon as the Herald of Andraste had walked just out of earshot, Varric was turning to Dorian with a barely restrained fervor. "Alright Sparkler, you go keep him busy for thirty minutes."

"Oh? What are you planning over there?" 

"Our beloved Herald was paid in a Qunari's weight in apples and these Fereldans want to do something for him- you know, since he's been running around fixing everything and being all _nice_."

"So you are making something for him? How touching. Hopefully it tastes better than what they usually try to pass as food here." Dorian would be lying if this whole scenario wasn't giving him a sort of secondhand excitement. "Have they ever heard of spice? Wonderful thing, they should look into it."

"Just go keep him busy," Varric pushed as Lavellan looked back with a suspicious frown.

"I feel as though they are up to something," Lavellan mused as soon as Dorian was close enough to hear.

"I'm afraid they are poisoning all your hard earned apples. They wanted me to join in, but I refused. Poison is so boring, as you know, I prefer my evil doings to be more flashy and involving mostly blood magic."

"Of course," Lavellan nodded sagely. "There were a lot of apples so it's awfully thoughtful of them to poison each by hand."

"They'll be at it for the rest of the evening, I imagine. What will you do with your last few hours left on this mortal plane, your worship?"

Lavellan hummed in mock thought, barely hiding his grin under the calloused hand at his chin. "I'm not sure. I'm still new to this whole deity thing. Should I be writing a will for them to turn into a new religious order?"

"Only if I get to be in it. Seeing as I am loyally out here in the wilds with you and not defiling your tributes like those other heretics."

Lavellan laughed and shook his head, smiling and it was almost infectious. _Banter_ , with the Herald of Andraste, and it was fantastic and probably not allowed.

"I still can't believe it all. I keep waiting for the joke to end," Lavellan's voice was barely over a whisper. "For them to finally understand."

Dorian had heard first hand the many denials of the Herald of Andraste, as well as overhearing plenty more during his brief stint in Haven. Lavellan was always quick to assure people that he was just in the right/wrong place at the right/wrong moment, that he wasn't here because of any divine reason, and had even told a Revered Mother that he didn't even _believe_ in Andraste or the Maker. It was all rather blasphemous, and the many followers and worshippers were so eager to conveniently ignore it all. Just as they ignored his Dalish heritage, how elvhen he looks, the fact that he is a real, actual person not some imaginary figure-

It would be so easy to join the masses, put Lavellan up on the pedestal he belonged on. He certainly deserved it, between all the miracles and modesty and limitless charity that had every Chantry Sister's smallclothes in a jealous twist from here to Orlais. Lavellan would be a martyr at some point before this is all over.

"I'm sorry," Lavellan muttered. "I've been asked to be less…" he waved a hand as if to say _this_. 

Dorian swallowed before his mouth decided to be a fool and ruin the mood further and before his brain could catch back up to the situation at hand. "I consider myself Andrastian, you know."

The full of Lavellan's attention was set upon him, those icy blue eyes fixed on his, mouth downturned with an apology undoubtedly on his tongue. But Dorian wasn't quite finished. Regrettably. "I don't believe in the Chantry, but for what it's worth… I do believe in you."

His grimace was well hidden, but the uncomfortable look was obvious, and despite Lavellan's unspoken plea to not do this please, Dorian continued. "You are exactly what was needed, when we needed it, whether through divine intervention or through chance. More so than that you…"

It was Dorian's turn to feel awkward now as his brain screamed for him to stop, as his heart and mouth grudgingly trekked onwards and downwards. Normally he wasn't like this. He wasn't, he was sure of it. But dimly he recalled the horrible dungeons back at Redcliffe, when they had slipped through the cracks of a faulty spell, and the words he spoke echoed off the skulls and red lyrium. ' _I_ will _protect you_ ' he had said and- "you don't have to go alone, in all this. I- _we_ , are all here because of you, not your Mark or because of Andraste or the Maker. We are here to help you because we all want to. Because we believe in _you_." 

My, those were a lot of words and he had acquired a startling knack for just depositing them all on the one person he probably should refrain from doing that to. This was what, the second time in little more than a week? At least he didn't bring up selective breeding or the Black Divine again. Meanwhile Lavellan was doing a stunning impression of a startled halla instead of replying. He looked tense enough to break, a blush burning his cheeks and nose, and Maker if he would just say _something_ \- 

Well, the crash course on the Tevinter Imperium didn't do the trick, but turns out whatever _this_ was woukd likely be the best way to get booted out of the Inquisition. If he didn't get escorted out to see the lovely sheer cliffside perfect for dumping unwanted people off of, or the frozen lake nobody would ever find his body in, Dorian sincerely doubted he would be invited back out. Lavellan would be fully justified in avoiding him like the Blight. 

Embarrassment was something he hadn't felt in a long while and he couldn't say he missed it.

Damage control- or at least a graceful exit- _anything_ to end this- "Right, well, yes how about we go back and forget all about this over some of that mystery wine you found on a corpse-"

Lavellan grabbed his arm before he could turn and make his retreat. The flush was still there, but the self-conscious shock was lessened, although he didn't quite meet Dorian's eyes. Which was fair, because he was trying to look everywhere else but at Lavellan himself. "Thank you. Hearing that from you… I suppose it puts things into perspective a bit more."

Dorian's mouth was dry as he uttered a quiet, "of course."

"Smiles! Sparkler!" Varric's sudden interruption had them both jolting with shock. "You get that- ah well, nevermind, just come on back," he called from half the distance.

Dorian mindlessly adjusted his many belts and buckles and collars, but couldn't stop his traitor eyes from glancing back at Lavellan. He was smiling softly, warm and with a fondness Dorian found unfamiliar. He hadn't seen a look like that in what felt like ages. 

He did his best to ignore it and lead the way back to the camp.

The closer they got the more the air thickened with the smell of "Maker's _tears_ , is that cinnamon?" The Fereldans did have spice hidden away somewhere, Andraste be praised.

"What is this? It smells good," Lavellan sniffed heartily.

"Well, yesterday we got paid with a bag of flour, and today it was apples, and Scout Harding here had just the thing for both," Varric explained. 

"It's a Fereldan delicacy so I'm told," Cassandra added. "At least in this particular region."

These mysterious "delicacies" were pastries of a sort- bread with chunks of spiced apple and crusty from the hot oil they were cooked in. Scout Harding was distributing them with an enthusiastic monologue on the recipe, the history, how nobody had ever made a consensus on the name, all while dusted in places with flour. She was certainly a dwarf of many talents, considering how wonderful everything smelled and how efficiently she was able to use that curved bow on her back.

Lavellan was given his last, and everyone waited with bated breath for him to take the first delicate bite. His eyes fluttered closed and he let loose a truly sinful noise somewhere between a moan and whine. Dorian immediately cataloged it for later. "Fenhedis, she'va dhal," Lavellan groaned between ravenous bites, "this tastes so good."

After taking a bite of his own, Dorian had to admit the Fereldan barbarians may have been on to something. It was flaky, spiced, and sweeter than anything else he'd eaten during his stay here. His own hummed appreciation joined the growing chorus as the Herald, his companions, his scouts, his guards, and his requisition officers all tucked into what could pass as a dessert in this tasteless wasteland.

"Thank you," Lavellan managed after his second, "this really- it was wonderful."

Varric laughed and winked at Scout Harding, who looked beside herself at the praise, all while Cassandra offered the elf the last one. Dorian fought the urge to look away when their eyes met briefly, there was so much warmth and adoration it had his face heating up- Dorian blamed it on standing so close to the campfire. 

He was almost thankful to be heading back so soon. 

_Almost._


	5. Around the Campfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dedicating this chapter to the horrible time I had fighting off 4 bears, 3 prowlers, and a pack of Mabari with the Grizzly End trial activated after just doing that rift in the cave. 
> 
> That was basically the worst thing ever.
> 
> I hate the Hinterlands sometimes.

They were still three days from Haven, staying in one of the outpost camps set up along the road. Cassandra was methodically sharpening her sword further from the fire and the wet rasp of whetstone and steel was a monotonous undertone to all the evening noise of nature. Dorian had never realized just how _noisy_ nature actually was until spending time in it. 

The Herald of Andraste and Varric were both silently scribbling away closer to the fire and sharing a bottle of vintage far too good to have been found in an abandoned hovel in the Hinterlands outbacks. They had offered him a few drinks, to which he was rather thankful for, but given the scowl on Lavellan's face… the elf seemed to need it far more than he did. 

Dorian may have given up his fruitless inspection of the strange whispering shard of something in his hands in favor of watching the Herald of Andraste.

A scout came by, the third in what had only been an hour, and Lavellan sighed and added the given paper to his stack. Varric shook his head, "I tried to warn you about ignoring Red for too long."

"Oddly enough," Lavellan muttered as soon as the scout left, "it's not her I'm the most terrified of. Ambassador Montilyet is the one to really watch out for."

"Who? Ruffles?"

Lavellan nodded sagely. "I'm certain we could skip all sorts of things if Ambassador Montilyet went off to meet the Elder One by herself."

"It's true. It'd probably send back a box of little candies and a soulfully worded letter full of apologies and promises to never do evil again," Dorian added.

"That's a good twist. I'll see about adding it to your book, Herald."

"Please do. The historians will love it."

"I didn't know you were chronicling the grand adventures of the Inquisition, Varric. How many chapters are you going to dedicate to all the bears we fought? Any less than three will be an injustice, so you know."

"At the rate we bumped into those things, I'd say five chapters. Fereldan's bear population took a sizeable hit over the last week." Varric side-eyed Lavellan ruefully, while the latter pretended not to notice.

"If there's one thing you are fantastic at, Herald, aside from finding all manner of hidden objects and desperate peasants, it is finding every bear in the area."

"It's an art," Lavellan replied, never looking up from his reports. "Perhaps they all just like me and wish to say hello."

"And you so rudely murdered each one, swinging that axe around."

"Consider it a breakdown in communications."

Glumly, Dorian doubted the Herald of Andraste's snark would ever make it into any official texts. A crying shame, really. He rather liked the wit. 

"Shoulda brought Ruffles."

"You are absolutely right," Lavellan sighed. "So many wasted lives…" the elf paused, then smiled at Varric with a wicked glint in his eye.

Varric immediately stood up, "I know where this is going. Don't you dare-"

"I can _bear_ -ly stand it."

Cassandra made a disgusted noise as Varric threw up his hands in defeat, "I hope you're proud of yourself, Smiles." Dorian couldn't help laughing at the absurdity of _wordplay_ from the Herald of Andraste. It just got better and better.

"I'm going to put unflattering things about you in this book, just you watch," Varric continued to grumble despite the obvious smile on his lips.

"I expect nothing less," Lavellan nodded, proud of his handiwork.

Varric sighed one more time before shaking his head, taking another swig of dubious alcohol, and heading off to the tents. Cassandra stopped by after he was gone to pat Lavellan's shoulder before heading in a similar direction. Leaving Dorian and the Herald to sit near the fire as alone as they could be in camp full of people.

"I never did properly thank you," Lavellan said more to his paperwork than to anyone in particular.

"Who exactly would you be thanking?"

"You, actually. For what happened in Redcliffe, back when we confronted Alexius. And for coming here with me."

"I couldn't possibly turn down a request from the Herald of Andraste, I'd have rotten fruits and vegetables thrown at me. Can you even imagine?"

Lavellan laughed, dimples highlighted by the light of the fire, "I'm sure you could turn it into a fashion statement. Those requests are voluntary, you know."

"Are they? Has anyone actually turned you down before?"

Lavellan paused, face scrunching up in thought. "Nobody has. I don't think- does everyone think it's obligatory then?"

"It certainly sounds like it." Although maybe it was just him, but he wouldn't turn down an invitation. With the way Varric and Cassandra followed him, he likely wasn't alone in the sentiment. 

"No wonder Madame De Fer doesn't like me much."

"I'm certain it's nothing to worry about, although if your trips are similar to this one, maybe take her to fewer caves filled with terrible things."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet my companions wish they could say no as I drag them through every creepy cave in sight. 
> 
> Short chapter....


	6. Set up for a Bad Joke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian comes to some conclusions

Finally back in Haven, Dorian's first order of business was getting under the miserable pile of blankets in his miserable shack only to do a double take at gates. There was a Qunari. It had him pausing dumbly for only a moment- until it winked at him. He could feel himself bristling but was swiftly distracted by Lavellan banking hard towards the hulking oxman with a notable bounce in his step. 

The Qunari greeted Lavellan with an earthshaking clap on the shoulder that looked like it could break something. If the elf felt any pain he made no show of it- in fact he was laughing. The two were being downright friendly with each other; as if one wasn't a growing political power and the other almost certainly a foreign spy. Dorian's staring was noticed after another awkward moment or two and Lavellan was beckoning him over with a smile.

"Dorian, have you met Iron Bull?"

The Qunari, Iron Bull looked down at him as if just seeing him, his single eyebrow raised. "A Tevinter mage. Interesting choice of company, Boss."

"Almost as interesting as a Qunari spy. Or are you here to convert people to the Qun?" Dorian's reply was so automatic it surprised himself. 

Lavellan frowned, "is there… am I missing something?"

"Not much at all, Boss, just giving my greetings to the 'Vint."

"Nothing save for the fact that our countries have been in a minor dispute for a few centuries."

"Oh." Lavellan looked curiously between the two, posture oddly stiff. Concerned, Dorian realized belatedly. "I see. This sort of thing isn't going to be a-"

"Not at all," Dorian cut in automatically at the same time Iron Bull replied, "of course not."

Lavellan relaxed and gave a wane smile, not entirely convinced but relenting anyway, "that's good to hear. You are both dear friends to me and I would hate to see you fight."

Iron Bull roared and said something and clapped his hand (larger than Dorian's _head_ ) on Lavellan's shoulder again, but it was lost in the sudden fuzzy static filling his ears and the tensing of his shoulders. _Dear friends_ , Lavellan had said that, and he meant them both? True they had gone through time and saved the past from the future or vice versa, and jaunted around in the countryside for a week, and had not one but two awkward conversations that he'd like to take back and try again, but _dear friend._ How? More importantly, why? He hadn't had a _dear friend_ since Felix and none before him and he couldn't possibly mean that unless it was some sort of scheme to- "would you want to come with us, Dorian?"

Lavellan's voice aimed his way broke him from his whirling thoughts, and his reply was instantaneous and completely mindless, "I would love to."

"Wonderful, I'll go let Sera know," Lavellan said with a wane smile and a wave. 

Dorian watched as the elf walked back towards Haven, all his previous mirth and joy slowly disappearing with each reluctant step as his empty mask was put back in place before he even reached the gate. Whatever got him through all the worship and back-handed praise, Dorian supposed. Lavellan was gone too soon as the Herald of Andraste went back to his little prison.

Leaving him all alone with the Qunari. 

With Lavellan's mediating presence gone, Dorian could feel the tension creep from his shoulders and into his hands, setting him on edge. He could probably set up a barrier before Iron Bull took a swing, but it would likely shatter upon impact-

"The Boss is too kind. Bit too modest for all this too. Never seen anyone hate praise as much as he does." Iron Bull was apparently looking in the same direction he was, and hadn't moved. 

"He doesn't realize that's what makes them all worship the ground he walks on. The Mark on his hand is just a bonus." The knot in his chest loosened a hair. Lavellan was unlikely to partake in any grand games of his own, let alone _the_ Game. He likely meant exactly what he said, terrifying a thought as that was.

"He actually grimaced when I called him the Herald of Andraste. Guys like that are guys you can trust. They don't let titles get to their heads," Iron Bull chuckled at that, the fondness clear as day.

Look at them, a Tevinter Altus and a Qunari spy bonding over a Dalish elf inadvertently and unwillingly raised to some almost demi-godhood. 

"He'd make for a terrible despot. I watched him splash around a lake for twenty minutes begging someone's ram to go home." Dorian distantly felt a tiny lick of shame at having immediately suspected Lavellan of… well, whatever he was suspecting.

"Must've been quite the ram," Iron Bull said with a growing smile, and some of the distrustful knot fizzled away. Not completely, but enough for now.

"Lord Woolsey was apparently a very special ram." 

He had to remember they were all here for a purpose, they were all a part of the Inquisition, and they were all _dear friends_ and didn't he just say they all believed in Lavellan? No need to make a hypocrite of himself and doubt the man at the same time. He was no longer in Tevinter and Iron Bull may be here for the Qunari, but he also had to be here because Lavellan wanted him to be. The elf was modest and welcoming, but he was discerning enough.

He hoped.

Given the fact that he let a Tevinter mage join his ranks had him a little doubtful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Dorian.


	7. The Storm Coast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Blades of Hessarian had so much dog paraphernalia like omg
> 
> Also Bull can't fit thru doors don't @ me

Five days later, Dorian would regret everything, chief of all his agreeing to accompany the Herald of Andraste on yet another venture so soon. To the Storm Coast. If he had been paying attention he would have been in his pile of blankets, shivering from the draft and ignoring Adan's angry use of a mortar and pestle. Instead he was doubled over, puking onto a poor patch of spindleweed, shivering from the sick and incessant rain.

"I've never seen anyone get seasickness while on land," Iron Bull mused as Sera made a disgusting noise by his side.

Lavellan was rubbing gentle circles onto his back, "why didn't you say the sea makes you sick?"

"To be fair," Dorian muttered while wiping his lips, "I assumed I only got sick over water too." He could also blame it on the horrible waters of the Waking Sea, always crashing and spraying and churning- Dorian barely held back his nausea.

"Have you crossed over water before?"

Once while awake, the rest were either while he was drugged or drunk, depending on how willingly he was being shipped. "I'll be fine, let's just keep going," Dorian deflected poorly, putting on his best smile.

Lavellan narrowed his eyes and shrugged, "the place we are looking for is further inland anyway."

"We gonna take on the Blades? Alright!" Bull roared over Sera's quips about swords and their 'littler swords'.

He supposed a good bout of manslaughter would work wonders at pulling his mind away from his lingering seasickness. And from any lingering embarrassment. He would regret that thought too after one of the armored Mabari tried eating his robes during the fight. It just wasn't his day. For the last however many days since leaving Haven.

"These little swords sure like their dogs," Sera pointed a blood-flecked arrow at one of the many Mabari murals. 

"They certainly do," Lavellan agreed.

There were Mabari murals on almost every wall, multiple large statues of the beasts, twice as many smaller statues, all the cloth had wadded clumps of dog fur on it, and the whole place reeked of wet dog. To say they _liked_ their Mabari was a grievous understatement. Just when Dorian thought the lack of taste couldn't be beat, he found a well-read copy of _Hard in Hightown_ sitting on the leaders desk. He barely held in his sigh.

Lavellan followed him into the house not long after, flicking idly through the papers but not coming up with much. Sera made a bee-line to one shelf and snickered when Iron Bull's horns thumped into the doorway. He tried sidling in sideways next but ended up shrugging and standing outside like a new door.

"Lookit, they got a collection," Sera giggled, "isn't this one Cassandra? It's a mirror, yeah?" The Mabari figurine had a carved scowl so apt the resemblance was almost uncanny.

Dorian let the two elves bicker over the startling amount of Mabari figures and other baubles while he continued to meander about the cabin. Everything of interest had already been poked at by Lavellan, so he mostly just stood around trying not to get dog hair on his robes. He failed within minutes.

Lavellan tapped on Dorian's shoulder, lips barely holding back a smile. "I know you aren't much for Fereldan dogs, but this one is- it reminds me of you." 

Dorian was a heartbeat away from being _incredibly offended_ until he actually saw the figurine in question. It was inlaid with gold and silver, striking a dramatic pose, and had a curled mustache carved into its snout. It was garish and ridiculous and he was loathe to admit there was some resemblance somewhere. 

"What a gift. I can hardly contain my delight at being compared to a drooling war hound," Dorian quipped. He took the figurine anyway, tucking it into the pouch beside his spellbook, enchanted to keep his valuables safe from falls, water, thieves, and bears. 

"You do certainly drool less," Lavellan laughed, "think of it as a souvenir, a trophy for surviving the barbaric south."

As if there were any other places he could go- or would rather be. 

Later that night, while camping along the coast, Dorian sat by the edge of the fire with his back facing the horrible sea. He found himself pulling the Mabari figurine out and studying it a little more, running his fingers over the swirling gold and silver. It would be worth quite a bit on the market in metal alone and while Dorian had never heard it said outright- the Inquisition wasn't exactly the most profitable business. It was funded through donations, the work of the devout, and through the miraculous work of the Herald. Miraculous work meaning looting everything not bolted down and selling whatever wasn't useful. This horribly gaudy figure could have gone to the Inquisition, to fund it just a bit more- all the figures and baubles could have. 

Yet Lavellan insisted they have these; a goofy dragon for Bull, a tiny Mabari for Varric, a songbird with cut crystal eyes for Vivienne, a lion statue for Cullen. Gifts for everyone, freely given (though not from the people they cut down to get them), with no ulterior motive to be found. Maybe. Dorian was still working that one out.

Though he was sure he already knew the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemme just shove as many headcanons as possible into this


	8. The Iron Bull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Bull have a discussion.
> 
> The Herald has a plan

It had been five days since they set out from Haven and his second here at the coast. The sea had gotten easier to be around (although still off limits) and his prevalent nausea had dwindled, now stemming only from one source instead of two. The Qunari, a Ben Hassrath, a mercenary for hire and likely not cheap, and a silent source of stress.

It had been easier to ignore on the road, just the endless riding between outposts, surrounded by scouts and soldiers. Out here, however, there was nobody else, and Iron Bull's presence had him prickling. 

Sera, he could deal with. She was a simple person to understand (for the most part). Deeply distrustful of magic and everything involved, but harmless enough with her intentions. She liked Lavellan because he 'was little people', which Dorian assumed meant he cared about the less fortunate. A true statement. While Sera had yelped the first time he gave her a barrier and threatened to shove an arrow somewhere tender, Dorian wasn't bothered by her. 

Iron Bull was another matter.

Lavellan didn't seem bothered by the Qunari, joking and chatting in low voices as they slogged through the humid forests. He was a curious person, always asking things about the people around him. From the little Dorian overheard of what Iron Bull told Lavellan, his own information dump on himself and his homeland may have some stiff competition in terms of awfulness. It simultaneously made him feel better and more on edge.

He was a mage. He knew what the Qunari did to mages. It was a barbarism that made the south look cute in comparison. Would he tell Lavellan? More so, what would Lavellan do with the information?

More so than that- what exactly did the Iron Bull even want with the Inquisition?

If he wasn’t here to convert for the Qun, he was here to spy. The thought sat heavy with Dorian. Surely Lavellan _knew._ But did he know what was being sent back to the Qunari?

After several hours of quiet hiking through the damp foliage, Dorian couldn't take not-knowing any longer. He at least waited until Lavellan was distracted trying to climb up some incredibly slippery stones to get to a whispering shard, Sera watching over him, before cornering the Qunari. Whether she was there to help or to get a laugh he wasn't sure, but he had other things on his mind.

"I hope it doesn't bother you to travel alongside a 'Vint'," Dorian started with no preamble, giving a sideways glance to the Qunari.

Iron Bull didn't even react. "Is that what you are? You all look the same to me."

Dorian bristled, "I'm a mage also. Would you prefer me to be bound and leashed?"

"I'd buy you dinner first," Iron Bull smirked but otherwise continued to stand, idly watching Lavellan grab the shard and then slide gracefully back to the ground.

"Hopefully before you sewed my mouth shut."

"Depends on if you keep yapping," Iron Bull growled.

Dorian opened his mouth, a barb ready on his tongue, but Lavellan shot them a triumphant smile and he felt himself wither. "You're a Qunari spy."

Bull leaned over, "and you're a Vint. When we're fighting Vints."

Lavellan's triumphant smile wavered, his head tilting as he looked at them curiously from afar, handing his prize to Sera before walking over. Sera held the whispering shard at arm's length before just shrugging and dropping it with no ceremony.

"That's… not a terrible point. Okay," Dorian muttered before Lavellan got any closer.

"Everything alright?," Lavellan asked with open concern.

"Of course," Dorian replied sullenly.

"How many of those bits you up to now, Boss?"

Lavellan glanced back at Sera frowning, until he saw the shard on the ground. Sera shot him an innocent look. "Twenty two. I still have no idea what they are or what they do."

"So you are just… picking them up? Sounds safe."

"The Venatori are quite interested in them. Anything they want we should take first," Dorian countered. "If only so they don't use it for their own means."

"I agree, though I do dislike all the strange whispering. Let's head back to camp for now, if I leave that shard in Sera's possession who knows where it'll be left."

"And after you nearly died to get it too," Dorian tutted, though his heart wasn't in it.

Lavellan sighed, "given where some of these shards end up, it's tempting to just leave them where they lay." Shrugging, he nodded back in the direction of the next camp. "Let's move on."

Iron Bull and Sera were eager enough, the Qunari forging a path ahead of them, leaving a trampled trail in his wake. Dorian found himself towards the back of their merry group, stuck with his thoughts and Lavellan's quiet company. He was loathe to admit Iron Bull was right. He hardly had any room to go making accusations of trust, not with the growing Venatori presence.

"I've noticed Bull makes you uncomfortable," Lavellan suddenly spoke, breaking Dorian from his thoughts.

"It's- something like that."

"Will you tell me about it?" It was more of an offer than a question, and likely the closest thing Lavellan would ever get to a demand.

"It seems rather… hypocritical of me. I'd rather not concern you over it, not when there are more pressing matters. Such as lunch."

"We both know what lunch is. Although I have seen some currants here and there, if you'd really like to switch things up."

"Hard tack _and_ bush berries? The height of luxury."

"Don't let it get to your head," Lavellan chuckled, but his serious look was back. "You're deflecting."

He was. "And it was working so well too."

"I may have heard bits of your conversation with him," Lavellan murmured, glancing Dorian's way demurely. "I'm sorry."

Dorian's stomach dropped, "the Herald of Andraste, an eavesdropper? What will they say."

"Elves have sensitive hearing. Also your voice carries."

"Right," Dorian muttered quietly instead of swearing like he wanted to. 

"He told me he was a spy when we first met, and willingly agreed to my terms."

"You don't seem too concerned with what he could be sending back." So Lavellan did know.

Lavellan chuckled hollowly. "I haven't had much privacy since becoming the Herald. Hopefully the Qunari get a laugh over the reports of me splashing around in ponds and falling off cliffs."

Looks like Lavellan _could_ scheme if he was so inclined. A man running around getting mauled by bears and interrupting "picnics" between scouts and apostates would hardly register as a threat to the Qunari. It was a gamble, since they might still be wary of the mark on Lavellan's hand- but it may just be enough to keep them settled, content to watch from a distance as per usual. The realization of Lavellan's plan startled a chuckle from him. 

Dorian shook his head, "you've put a lot more thought into things than I'd given you credit for. I apologize."

"Apology accepted, but rather unnecessary," Lavellan shot him a smile. "I just hope it's enough to tide them over, at least until the Breach is sealed."

"And what comes afterwards, I wonder? I have a feeling this 'Elder One' won't let you undo all it's hard work so easily."

Lavellan's smile fell, his face hardened, etched with determination, with a sadness roiling in his glacial blue eyes. He looked like a man talking about his execution. "No, I doubt it will. We will just pick up the pieces, and see what comes next." 

Dorian supposed the Inquisition was lucky to have found someone like Lavellan. He just hoped the luck hadn't run its course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Qunari bastard stuck reading Bull's reports is probably just like... really? More bears? Why bees? Why does he need so much elfroot? Why-


	9. Astrariums and Storms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are looked at

"There's an astrarium nearby, Boss."

Lavellan squinted, looking around and up, "where?"

"Up near the cliffside, there. Not far." Bull pointed helpfully.

Lavellan squinted harder, "over there?"

"It's right there," Sera shouted, throwing up her hands, "it sticks out like Flissa's-"

"I'm _looking_ but I don't see it. Which cliffside-"

"The one to the right. To the north of us," Dorian added, as exasperated as the rest of them. He had noticed this problem while in the Hinterlands, but it was always quickly and quietly resolved by Varric. He needed to ask about whatever trick he used to get Lavellan to see obvious things, because this was getting _painful_.

Eventually Sera sighed, clapped her hands to each side of Lavellan's face, and turned his head towards the astrarium. "Oh! It was right there."

Sera and Iron Bull groaned in unison as Lavellan set off to climb the eternally slippery rock.

"I thought the Dalish were supposed to have keen senses. How do you not see things the one-eyed person can easily spot," Dorian griped, because surely there had to be a reason somewhere.

"Who told you that?"

"I can think of a few sources," Iron Bull glanced back towards him with a look. Dorian was begrudgingly glad he didn't extrapolate. 

"Well, there's a reason why I use a blade and not a bow and arrow. My eyesight isn't the best from a distance," Lavellan explained while figuring out the constellation with hardly any effort. The man sure loved his puzzles. "Hard to miss with a greataxe."

"Then how do you get all those little hidden things? Like the brandy and the dirty notes," Sera asked before Dorian had a chance.

"Oh, those," Lavellan looked over at her, face serious. "Well, it's like I have this buzzer in my head that-"

Laughter burst from Dorian before he could stop it. "I knew it!" The smug satisfaction he had over being miraculously right somehow outweighed the ridiculousness of it all and carried him up until thunder began to rumble ominously from the heavens and rain suddenly came crashing down in a torrent not long after.

"We should get to the lower camp," Lavellan shouted over the downpour.

The winds picked up and Dorian avidly avoided looking seaward. The Storm Coast was aptly named, and Scout Harding had warned them ahead of time of its notoriously unpredictable inclement weather patterns. Their luck had to run out eventually. He just hated that it was _right now_.

They were all soaked to the bone in minutes.

"Is the camp even set up yet? It's only been two days since you sent the missive," Bull shouted back, dutifully trudging along regardless.

"It'll be better than trying to find a cave in a thunderstorm. There's a lot of metal between us."

Sera spat curses as she sunk into a muddy puddle while Dorian was torn between holding a barrier to keep the rain off him or a mild heating spell so he didn't succumb to the frigid cold. The lower camp was half an hour away, and by the time they arrived, they were all thoroughly chilled and exhausted from attempting to move quickly over unforgivingly slick terrain. The camp was in its very early stages of set up, with only four tents and a thoroughly extinguished fire to show. Everything else was still a work in progress or was on a cart off to the side. A skeleton crew of three were there to greet them as they approached.

Lavellan mercifully didn't keep them long, simply delegating people to the safety of the tents. Dorian was all too happy to go where directed, sighing in relief once inside the relative safety of the treated canvas and immediately stripping off the sodden outer layers of his robes. There were three bedrolls in the tent, and Dorian wondered if he'd be forced to share with one or more of the scouts. 

It wouldn't be unusual, he'd done it before, but it was always… awkward.

The flap opened behind him but he wasn't prepared to see Lavellan, sopping wet and rather artfully disheveled. "The rain is really pouring now. I hate to say, but it seems like we were lucky we got here when we did," 

"The South is such a lovely place. I do so love all the spontaneity and _nature_ ," Dorian drolled, still awaiting a scout or two to replace Lavellan as his tent mate. The elf chuckled but didn't reply, stripping off his dripping armor instead. He'd never shared a tent with the Herald of Andraste before, although very few people had. "You didn't get your own tent?"

"Sera kicked me out the last time we shared one, something about me being too 'elfy' and also for being a man. Bull is… he takes up the entire tent." Lavellan looked away pointedly, voice going quiet. "As for the three scouts, they seemed more comfortable bunking together."

"Ah," Dorian replied, fiddling with his buckles. Nobody wanted to bunk with the evil Tevinter Magister. What a surprise.

They both silently stripped down to their inner clothes which were arguably less damp but still uncomfortably wet. It had been almost a month since joining the Inquisition, and during that time he had never been this close to Lavellan without danger or company. Or seen him in anything less than his armor. 

The burnished metal plating and worn leather hauberk he always wore was now in a pile beside the bedroll he claimed, and he was left in a simple pair of leggings and a beige sleeveless tunic. Both were sinfully tight against his body. It should have left him looking smaller and more... 

It somehow managed to have the complete opposite effect.

He knew the elf was strong (he'd seen him kick down a stone wall before) but he had never seen anyone so muscled. He was still lithe, slender and graceful in that elvish way, but he was built like a gladiator. Actually, he was better built than any gladiator Dorian had ever seen, although no less scarred. There were a few recent wounds, mostly scrapes and mottled bruises down his arms, but a few deep, gauging scars similar to the one on his cheek. With how messy they looked, it was impossible to tell their age. He wondered if there were more hidden away, how they came to be, what they would feel like under his hands-

Dorian stared dumbly as Lavellan tidied up his space, hanging what he could from the tent poles and wiping off the metal plating, hypnotized by the muscles bunching in the elf's shoulders and back. 

Absently, he wondered how it would feel to be on the other end of that strength. In an instant his brain was helpfully conjuring up a few images for him- mostly involving him being pressed against various tables and walls and his clothes being ripped off. Lavellan would shoot him a sheepish smile, apologize for being so rude, but would keep going anyway. He'd be horribly attentive, gentle with his touch, and forget about being at the mercy of his strength- not when there was his _focus._ It would almost be enough to make it feel like something more than it could ever be. No hidden agendas, just the Herald's single minded attention. He wondered if Lavellan could be rough, if he was even capable. 

"Dorian," Lavellan was looking at him curiously.

He'd been caught staring. 

He looked away quickly and swallowed thickly, but his ready excuse died on his tongue as Lavellan touched his arm. The Herald of Andraste was leveling him with a painfully stern look and Dorian felt himself wondering if he really was about to be on the other end of his incredible strength after all. 

Lavellan squeezed his hand, gently and with an earnestness that threw Dorian for a loop. "I just want to say that I know how it feels."

What?

"It's hard," Lavellan looked away, his voice sad. "Being a stranger in a strange land." 

Oh.

"You're a good man, Dorian." Lavellan looked back at him and his brain suddenly turned to mush as the elf smiled. "I'm honored to have you by my side."

_Oh._

"Truly, the honor is all mine," Dorian murmured, heart pounding in his chest and yet feeling oddly far away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My attempt at explaining why I struggle to find things right beside me on minimaps


	10. Lavellan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian ogles a moderately heretical symbol. 
> 
> Lavellan doesn't notice.

It felt like too soon when Dorian was back in Haven, despite the journey back taking almost a week. Time certainly flew when you were lost in thought. 

He'd spent the first day replaying the night he and Lavellan spent in the same tent together- an arm's length apart, in separate bedrolls, in the middle of a veritable tempest. Lavellan had settled down into sleep as soon as he was under the fabric, red hair mussed up and one hand curled on the hilt of a dagger. Dorian made a game attempt at doing the same but the lightning and thunder kept waking him every time he came close to dozing. After awhile, he simply gave up, deciding between reading and staring at his tent mate.

He easily chose the latter. 

He had rarely allowed himself to get more than a few fleeting glances at the man until now, having been too busy saving him from his former mentor, bandits, bears, and his own ability to shove his foot in his mouth. After their… _discussion_ on slavery, he found it hard to even make eye contact for a long while. There was another reason he stayed far from where Lavellan often traveled through Haven, and farther still from the spymaster. He was well aware of how little people approved of him, let alone any of the interactions he had with their precious Herald, so it had been better (and easier) to stay far enough away unless directly called upon by the man himself. Eyes were always on him while at camp, on the Inquisition marked roads, and with two other companions at Lavellan's side; all of which made ogling the man a bit tricky.

But it was just them in the tent.

He was free to actually _look_ at the man he'd all but pledged his life to, more than his cursory appraisal back in Redcliffe, and after about five minutes, he wished he hadn't. Lavellan was painfully handsome- sharp jaw and sharper cheekbones, elegant nose, and surprisingly long lashes. Freckles dotted the bridge of his nose and along his cheekbones, a few along the gentle slope of his neck and trailing to the collar of his shirt. His fiery red hair, short as it was, still managed to hang across his forehead, almost touching his furrowed eyebrows. Dorian had never seen anyone look so intent while sleeping. Every now and then his hand would twitch around the dagger grip, or the mark would crackle faintly, glowing dully under the thick blanket.

The lightning would occasionally illuminate the tent, breaking the soft green cast of the mark on Lavellan's hand. It was surprising just how much light it gave off, but then again, it was rather dark. The intermittent lights cast the elf's face in shadows, highlighting the deep scar along his cheek and wedged into his lip and the dark circles under his closed eyes. Lavellan looked utterly exhausted, even while fast asleep.

It had Dorian wondering.

The second and third days were spent chastising himself for leering at the Herald of bloody Andraste while he slept. Of all the men around him to become fixated with, he just had to choose the incredibly heretical option most likely to result in his death. It didn't make the sight of of his rippling muscles, or slightly parted lips, or the echo of " _you're a good man, Dorian_ " go away. In fact it all just seemed amplified as they trekked and the object of his musings happened to be right in front of him. Sera and Bull discussed various subjects up ahead with a terrifying intensity while Lavellan seemed more inclined to just enjoy the trek, interjecting only on occasion. Dorian caught something involving bees and another thing involving breeches but tuned the vast majority of it out in favor of attempting to not stare at Lavellan. 

Despite all his self-flagellation, his eyes frequently trailed the elf's way, watching as he happily walked barefoot through the mud and leaves, his heavy boots strapped to his saddle. His ears strained to catch the notes of a hummed song or the gentle whispers he'd murmur to the old mare walking beside him. Lips twitching up into smiles whenever he'd laugh brightly at some silly thing someone said. It was enough to make time blur between meals of jerky and hard tack, idle debates over Orlesian frippery and Fereldan stoicism, and oddly busy outpost camps along the road. The Inquisition was spreading surprisingly rapidly, fueled by fear and desperate devotion to the fuzzy image of Lavellan.

Which is what he spent the last three days thinking about.

As their merry band closed in on Haven, Lavellan visibly grew more somber. He stopped wandering around barefoot and his humming faded out entirely. It occurred to Dorian stupidly late that he hadn't thought much about Lavellan's circumstances before now, and it had him feeling a bit guilty for the oversight. No wonder he disliked Haven, why he was always quick to leave, why he looked utterly exhausted all the time. " _It's hard, being a stranger in a strange land."_

By the time they stepped through the gates and he lost the elf in the wave of devotees and advisors, Dorian felt like he finally, truly understood what Lavellan had meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's shoooort
> 
> I've already written the next like 5 chapters. Varric was right yo


	11. The Spymaster of the Inquisition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Such short chapters... 
> 
> Also lemme know if you see any mistakes, I'm not editing them very thoroughly :(
> 
> I noticed the italics doin' weird stuff to the formatting, and will hopefully get around to fixing it someday (which is today 2/7/20)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian has such a hard time.

Lavellan had been gone for five days now, on a sudden and pressing trip to a charming place the locals lovingly called the Fallow Mire. Which was what the Southerners referred to as a 'bog' and was currently filled with corpses in various states of animation as well as some truly rambunctious Avaar kidnappers. Given what he'd heard about the place, Dorian was actually grateful to sit this trip out and wished Madame Vivienne all the best. 

Being stationary and away from Lavellan's presence certainly made what he was doing easier, although still a difficult task that ended up taking an inordinate amount of time. Between the cold, the lack of resources, the growing pile of favors and debt he owed Varric, the blistering, bloody, unending cold- it was a miracle he even finished what he set out to do in the first place. But it was all long overdue, so he managed.

Dorian added the last few touches before getting up and stretching, shoulders and spine popping audibly. The stool he requisitioned from the tavern had left a horrible impression on his arse, exacerbated by how little he moved from his work. He could only hope and pray it would spring back to its rotund shape sometime this age. The barrel he was using as a makeshift desk was oddly sticky in places and smelled faintly but still nauseatingly of fish. It was the only work surface available to him however, since the suspicious looks were getting to be a bit much in the tavern. He had no idea how or where Varric did all his writing, but he wasn't interested in owing any more than he already did. Half the paper he used had unused drafts of the next chapter of _Hard in Hightown_ , and one memorable page had a particularly saucy scene from _Swords and Shields_. He would have asked Solas to borrow his supplies, but the man mysteriously disappeared whenever Dorian walked towards the stairs. Plus Solas didn't seem like the "writing things down on paper" type. He probably preferred stone tablets and rams blood.

The things he suffered through.

But his work was finished, at least the initial step. Now came the hard part.

Dorian scooped up the mass of papers and maps and headed towards the spymaster's tent. He typically avoided this area of Haven, never venturing further than the tavern unless he was accompanying Lavellan on a trip, and certainly never coming this close to the Chantry. Twice was enough for him, and both times he'd been in the company of the Herald- likely the only thing keeping him from being unceremoniously escorted out.

There was no Lavellan beside him this time as he neared the building. The townsfolk, soldiers, worshippers, and various members of the Chantry all seemed to stare at him as he passed, judgemental and curious. No doubt they were looking for more fuel to add to their rumor-mongering. 

Leliana didn't look up at his approach, but Dorian didn't dare assume she didn't know he was coming, or that she was blind to what he had been working on. He liked to think she kept tabs on everyone equally, but there was likely an entire cell of spies tasked with watching him alone. 

It was almost flattering. 

"I was wondering when you'd come. Did you finish what you were working on?"

One of her birds cackled at him as he walked by and he just barely kept himself from jumping. 

"Yes, actually. Although it would have been easier with a desk. And paper. And ink. Maybe some candles too. Also a stool that didn't have three legs of varying lengths. Little things really."

"You seem to have managed just fine."

"Of course. I'm nothing if not resourceful," Dorian scoffed. 

"Certainly." Leliana finally glanced over towards him- or more specifically the stack of papers in his hands. "That's everything you have on the Venatori, then?"

"You seem disappointed I don't know more."

"It is only natural to think you would know a great deal. They are your countrymen, are they not?"

"They are, but they aren't anyone I'd associate with. What they want-" cheers came from the gates, opening to let the Herald and his companions come through. Dorian trailed off, watching as they dismounted and the fervour died down. They were all covered in muck, looking exhausted even from a distance, and the smell- hopefully his brain was supplying it and it really wasn't a horrible mix of sulfur, fetid decay, and fish. Bull and Blackwall wore their filth and stink as if it were nothing, and Vivienne looked elegantly thunderous despite the grime staining her silk robes. It was strange seeing her looking less than perfect- Dorian immediately filed the image away for fond reminiscences later. Lavellan came last, mud falling off him in clumps as he climbed the stairs, shooting him a curious look as he greeted Cullen. 

The Commander held himself firm, but was quickly and visibly turning green. Lavellan's report became rushed as Cullen started to have trouble holding back his sick. As the Commander rushed away as soon as was polite, Lavellan glanced back towards Dorian. He looked about as torn as Dorian felt, but thankfully decided against wandering over when Dorian waved him off. He always appreciated Lavellan, but right now he'd appreciate him more after a very long and vigorous bath.

Belatedly, Dorian realized Leliana had been watching him watch the Herald of Andraste the whole time.

Feeling heat creep up his neck, Dorian weakly grasped for where he left off. "Right. The Venatori, yes. Terrible folk, really. Entirely too much leather and blood magic."

Leliana impassively took the large pile of papers and maps from his hands and set it on a table beside her. "Our Herald certainly knows how to make an entrance, doesn't he?"

"You'd think he practices these sorts of things with how effortless he makes it."

"The Herald's kindness is well-known, and while his skills and demeanor command respect, it is not what attracts people to him."

Dorian suspected there was more to this conversation than what was being said, but he could only wait until the true subject surfaced. "True enough."

"He has accepted everyone who comes through these gates readily and without question. Needless to say, there are most certainly those who would make use of such a welcome," Leliana continued, and Dorian had to fight back his sigh. 

"There certainly would be. He'd make it easy too, offering to help them with their nefarious plans and everything."

"I'm glad you understand the situation, Lord Pavus, and that you can see why it is in the best interests of the Inquisition to-"

"You are wondering where my allegiances truly lie?" Dorian interrupted, disregarding the look Leliana leveled his way. "I am here because of my principles. Lavellan, the Inquisition he is a part of- and an integral part of, mind you- align with those principles. To be anywhere else would be unconscionable."

"I see." Leliana didn't seem convinced as she turned back to the stack of documents beside her. "I suppose we do have you to thank for protecting our Herald at Redcliffe."

"Something I would easily do again, I assure you," said with a surety that surprised even himself. "Not that I'm inclined to experience something like that again anytime soon. Bit too gloomy and apocalyptic for my tastes."

"That future may have been averted or perhaps one worse may come to pass. Who can say?" Leliana looked back at him. "The Herald plans on closing the Breach soon, and then we shall see for sure." 


	12. The Breach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ended up starting yet another playthrough. Same Lavellan and everything. How embarrassing.
> 
> Anyway I dunno how to fix the italics in a way that won't involve a lot of work. If anyone has any ideas lemme know though (edit: I figured it out n now I'm unstoppable)

Dorian hadn't gotten to see the Breach up close until now. "That is certainly quite the tear."

"You're talking as if it's a set of curtains," Varric muttered, eyeing it warily.

"Yes, but instead of being caused by something involving alcohol this was caused by something involving a very powerful brand of magic. Likely ancient and previously long lost- for good reason I suspect." Dorian should have brought something to take notes on. He wondered if Varric had more drafts of _Hard in Hightown_ he could use.

Varric grunted, "how comforting to know."

"Mages!" Cullen's voice rang around the crater that was formerly a temple. Dorian morbidly noted how nice the acoustics were. "Take your stations!"

Dorian waved a hand to Varric before sauntering over to join the other two mages allowed to get closer to Lavellan, and by extension the Breach. Solas didn't spare him a glance but Madame De Fer greeted him with a nod. "Lord Pavus, dear, how nice of you to join us."

"I am rather nice aren't I? What will the people think."

Dorian was saved from more faintly condescending chitchat when Lavellan raised his hand and created the first tether of light up towards the Breach. It was faint, the distance too far and the rift utterly massive, especially compared to all the previous ones he'd seen the elf close before. The magic of the mark stuttered until the formerly rebel mages slowly began feeding power into it, the air wisping with tendrils of pure power and the smell of ozone as more and more energy slipped into Lavellan's hand. 

Solas watched, calculating with a scholarly detachment, but didn't join to offer any of his power. Dorian and Vivienne didn't share the same hesitancy as Lavellan was clearly struggling, a sheen of sweat forming on his brow visible even from a distance, straining as the mark in his palm sparked and cracked angrily. Luckily it didn't seem painful, more so exhausting, and likely uncomfortable given that he was essentially being used as a focus.

For over a hundred mages. Of varying skill.

Dorian tried not to dwell on that too much.

The Breach groaned, crystalline spikes compacting and screaming as lightning arced and glanced from the edges of it and up into the sky. Gas fell in wisps, coalescing on the ground as the Breach shrunk and splintered until the world seemed to shudder and groan with the pressure of it. 

Just when it seemed like it would never end, that even though they gave it everything they could and it still wouldn't be enough, the Breach and Lavellan finally collapsed in a blinding surge of light. The shockwave of it sent almost everyone falling back, and when the blinding light and dust settled, Dorian looked up at the sky.

The Breach was gone, and the sun creeped slowly through the clearing clouds. All that remained in the sky was a languidly swirling funnel of dark clouds in the middle as they scattered. The only evidence of calamity. A cheer rose up from the ranks of soldiers and mages at the sight and Dorian almost joined in. Instead, he looked towards Lavellan, Cassandra helping him to his feet. He was sweaty and visibly trembling, swaying where he stood, but when they locked eyes and he smiled- Dorian truly felt the success of the moment.

Things would be okay, maybe not forever- but at least for right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many short chapters, though I guess I am updating every like every 2-3 days so
> 
> You're all welcome I guess.


	13. The Destruction of Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rip Haven

The alarm bells rang out from the Chantry, loud clanging sirens over the screaming, burning din that was Haven. There was so much fire, the smoke of it blotting out the night sky and the heat melting the perpetual snow and ice. Everything was red- red from the flames, the blood, the lyrium jutting from what used to be Templars. Dorian raced after the Herald from trebuchet to trebuchet, throwing up barriers and immolating monstrous caricatures of men along the way, adrenaline pumping through his veins in a way he'd never felt before. 

The horde of red Templars was unrelenting, and it had Dorian wondering what could possibly stop them (aside from the utter annihilation of Haven) until he learned why everyone was always careful in the icy valleys of the Frostbacks. He had never thought snow and ice would be good for anything until he saw the avalanche come thundering down the mountainside, snuffing out the lights of the incoming army in waves. A cheer rose from the battered soldiers- drowned out by the sudden roaring screech of a dragon.

Maker's _cock_ there was a bloody _dragon-_

"Back!" Lavellan shouted, "fall back to the gates! Now!" 

The dragon roared and spewed fire in arcing sweeps, leaving crystalline shards of red lyrium in its wake. Because a normal dragon just wasn't bad enough. The gates would do little to nothing to keep out the dragon, or even the Templars, especially after it had already fallen victim to a drunken Qunari just last week. Even Cullen's suggestion of the Chantry was nothing more than a stopgap against the inevitable.

They were going to die here.

Dorian felt numb despite the pounding of his heart, despite the burn of the flames as he reached for whoever he could, despite the tingle in his muscles as his mana drained with each barrier and wall of ice. Lavellan went out of his way to save everyone he could- something Dorian both loved and hated about him- but as the greedy merchant's cries ended with the collapse of a house, it seemed to sink in that maybe not everyone would make it out. 

He just wondered who was next to be left behind.

A dying man of the Chantry urged them in, propped up by a strange boy Dorian couldn't ever recall seeing anywhere. He would have remembered that horrible hat. The Chantry rumbled and shook with each pass of the dragon overhead, dust falling from its ancient rafters, as they collectively waited for their doom. At this rate the whole thing was liable to collapse at any moment and save the outside armies the trouble. Dorian welcomed the reprieve regardless, letting his mana flow back into his fingers and gladly taking the flask of whiskey Varric offered him. 

Meanwhile, Lavellan was locked in a rather grim looking conversation with the dying Chantry man, Chancellor Roderick if he recalled correctly, Commander Cullen, and the strange boy. Dorian couldn't make out the words- but the meaning was clear enough with the gestures, the postures, the expressions-

Lavellan was going on a suicide mission.

Dorian was stomping over in an instant, anger flaring up only to spark out when he saw Lavellan's face. Resignation mixed with a determination to see a duty through to the end. Whoever decided to make someone so bloody _responsible_ the hero in this story was a cruel man indeed.

"I know what you are about to do," Dorian began only for Lavellan to interrupt, "and I know what you are going to ask. The answer is no."

"You expect me to sit back and idly watch as you throw yourself to that _thing_ out there like a piece of bait?"

"I'm not asking anyone to go with me- not for this. I won't endanger anyone any more than I have already."

"Then it's certainly a good thing you aren't asking, because then I would have the option of declining." Dorian gently grasped Lavellan's shoulder, imploring, "I'm choosing to go with you, so let me." 

"It's too dangerous-"

"Let me keep you safe then, for as long as I can." Lavellan still looked stubbornly unswayed by his pleading. "Please, don't do this alone."

"You know," Varric's voice came from beside them, "I've seen some heroes do some pretty stupid heroic shit, but none of them have ever done any of it alone."

"How many heroes have you known before?" Bull rumbled from behind Dorian and it took all of his effort not to startle.

"Maybe just the one," Varric shrugged. "But this will be a good second."

"Why are you all acting as if you are coming with me," Lavellan all but growled. "He's only after me. You should all escape Haven while you can."

"You really think we'd just leave you to die," Dorian spat.

"You need to get to a trebuchet don't you? It'll be impossible without backup. You're good, Boss, but not that good," Bull reasoned, being the voice of surprising pragmatism.

Lavellan looked ready to argue but the Chantry shook violently enough to knock some masonry loose. With a sigh, he relented, but not without leveling them all with a firm glare, "if I say to run, you must promise to run. No matter what happens."

"You got it, Boss," Bull promised, and Varric nodded. Dorian couldn't bring himself to make a promise he knew he wouldn't keep- not now.

The elf nodded once and with that they were off, back into the fray. The Templars came in waves, the red lyrium singing from their skin and twisting them into monstrosities as they flung themselves against their swords and barriers. The brief respite in the Chantry hadn't been enough- and as more and more Templars swarmed around the last trebuchet, Dorian started to feel the strain of too many potions, too little mana, and the rattle of so much successive spellcasting. And still the Templars kept coming.

Strange how just an hour ago he had been drinking and celebrating, making moon eyes at an elf who was eating too many celebratory treats and pushing Sera away from his cup and critiquing peasant dances with the Enchanter of the Imperial Court. He supposed he had a nice last night alive, all things considered. Dorian downed the last of his lyrium potions with shaking fingers. He'd be feeling the aftereffects of this soon enough- if he managed to live that long. 

When the screeching red lyrium infused behemoth appeared and clubbed Lavellan halfway across the area, Dorian rapidly reassessed his chances of survival, dropping the number into the negatives.

His world became a haze of barriers, fire, and dodging the business end of the behemoth's arm. No doubt one hit with that mess of red lyrium would reduce him to a very pretty smear in the snow. He was fortunate Bull and Lavellan were so durable and kept the thing's attention.

By the end of it, Dorian was on his knees, trembling and holding himself up only thanks to his staff, embedded in the blood soaked soil. He coughed as the embers of the behemoth carried on the smokey wind, watching as Lavellan staggered to the trebuchet waving Bull off to go help Varric up. Now to wait for the signal flare- or the next disaster. Whichever happened to come first.

The dragon screeched overhead and Dorian couldn't even find the energy to sigh in exasperation. Dragon it was next then. Lavellan shouted, waving them back towards Haven. Dorian's hands were shaking as he called upon the last of the mana he didn't have, but he was being scooped up by Bull before he could even cast one last barrier.

Fire and lyrium blasted around the trebuchet, and Lavellan was thrown to the side- farther from them and- "Bull, we have to go back-" The Qunari kept running and Dorian didn't- couldn't hide his desperation, body too weak to struggle. "We can't leave him-" Varric's face was stony, but he ran silently alongside Bull and didn't look back. 

Thrown over Bull's shoulder, Dorian could only watch as Lavellan was lifted by the wrist into the air by something that could only be described as horror incarnate before the dragon blocked his view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody really comments on the whole suicide mission thing much


	14. In Your Heart Shall Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As an apology for updating the tags and editing some chapters here is another chapter (yay double update, my fave kind of date...)
> 
> ;_; Anyway so my bff found this fic and is reading it so I'm actually going to have to put some effort into it now. Bummer.
> 
> Anyway here is some Lavellan pov

Lavellan groaned, pushing himself up and off the pile of splintered lumber and fallen stones with a sharp gasp. His ribs _burned_. Every breath pulled at them, sending sharp spikes of pain across all the nerves in his body, and all the muscles in his back felt tight in response. Every movement felt like it would snap him in half.

More worrying was the quiet.

The only thing he could hear through the static was dripping liquid- belatedly realizing that it was coming from him. Gingerly, Lavellan touched the edges of the bleeding wound near his hairline, wincing at the nausea and white pain. He must have hit his head during the fall. Panic gripped his heart as he stared down at the red staining his fingertips. A head wound.

He couldn't forget again- he had so little left- _not again_ -

His gasping breaths had him dropping to his knees and forcing blissful clarity back to the forefront thanks to the pain. He remembered how he got here- Corypheus, the trebuchet, the signal flare, the horrified looks on his companions faces. He remembered who he was- Lavellan, Dalish, Free Marches, his first name had been lost at the Conclave, but his Keeper had sent him a letter. He needed to send one back sometime soon, thanking her for the blood lotus.

He hadn't lost anything else of himself.

But Haven was gone. 

A dark blip of thankfulness flared in his heart for a beat before he guiltily squashed it down. Haven had been a prison to him, yes, ever since waking up from his stumbling around in the Fade. His memories of before the Conclave were a fuzzy jumble at best, and his memories of what happened in the Fade even worse. Haven was where he began again- it was just unfortunate it began with him in shackles, being accused of atrocities he didn't commit, and then… then the shem deciding to make him some kind of stand-in for their deities. He knew little of the Maker or Andraste, he wasn't even all that invested in his own pantheon, all he knew was that Andraste had burned for her humans and the elf beside her was written from existence. 

Where would that leave him at the end?

He heard them as they talked, when they thought he was too far or they were too quiet overhear. They called him "knife-ear", the name flowing easy of their tongues, assuming, he supposed, the shape did nothing for his hearing. He heard it all- the slurs, the barbs, praise within earshot and derision when he was a few steps away. They cared only for the idea of him, nothing more. He was just a figurehead for them, a convenient savior, a novelty.

Not all of Haven thought this way or for very long, of course, but they were far from the majority. He loved those few for it.

Haven still didn't deserve to burn- especially in his name. 

Lavellan spent a little bit longer curled on the ground, forehead pressed to the cold stone as warm blood pooled under his clammy skin. He had never asked for this. The pedestal, the strange power, the people worshipping the ground he walked on, always asking and begging and pleading as if he was more than just one man. He thought he had something similar with his clan- some sort of leadership role, a set of responsibilities for the others. Surely, nothing like this. So many lives hanging off him like threads, one careless mistake snapping them like they were nothing. All the while he was powerless to keep them from tying those threads to him in the first place. 

When would those threads knot themselves into a noose?

In the end he was somehow now responsible for so many people it made his heart burn.

He vaguely recalled someone admonishing him once, "you carry everyone's weight like it's your own," hair a similar deep red as his. Whoever it was, they were right. But what else could he do? He wasn't a cruel man. He couldn't turn away anyone in need of help, not while he could provide it.

Lavellan cursed his morals, his ribs, and every Andrastian and elvhen diety he knew as he picked himself back up. He let the Avaar Lady go free of his ire, since she seemed the nice sort according to Sky Watcher, but it was a close thing regardless. The blaspheme helped, and Lavellan was able to stand and get a look at his surroundings which were… unremarkable. 

He had no idea where this was. 

It looked like some sort of tunnel; a very unused, unstable, and very cold tunnel that trailed off into abyssal darkness. Fortunately his armor was rather useful for keeping the cold at bay, and his wounds helpfully gave him the illusion of being fever hot, but he'd need to find warmth sooner rather than later. Let alone getting medical attention… Hopefully, salvation would be at the other end of wherever this led. 

If not, well. He needn't worry about pesky things like demi-godhood, warmth, or his broken ribs again.

There were quite a few people he would miss though, some more than others, and especially one in particular. He hadn't expected to find friends, but fighting and hiking and eating and scheming together, as well as a healthy dose of imminent destruction of the world, really had a way of bringing people together. He would just have to make it through this alive for them.

The thought didn't offer near as much motivation as he hoped it would.

On the move, although painfully slow, Lavellan took stock of everything broken in his body. Most concerning were his ribs, but his right ankle twinged angrily with each step, and his left wrist couldn't move without things grinding around. He was certain wrists shouldn't do things like that, so he kept it tucked close. The mark on his hand was at least being a convenient light source, no more powerful than a small candle, but it didn't really hurt for once. That may have just been because his entire left hand was numb, but he'd take whatever he could get. No doubt Corypheus broke something- well, he'd obviously broken _a lot_ of things- when he lifted him bodily from the ground. Lavellan had never been lifted one handed from the ground, not even two handed as far as he could recall. The sensation was not something he'd care to ever have repeated.

He ignored the helpful playback of his confrontation with Corypheus in favor of counting his steps. He got to thirty one before stumbling over a hidden lip in the stone and into a larger opening in the tunnel.

Multiple shrieks echoed deafeningly off the walls of the room and Lavellan cursed. Despair demons, all floating around a tiny tear in the Veil like it was a campfire. He reached back for his weapon only to realize it was no longer strapped to his back. Dread seized his heart and the Despair demons shrieked again and flitted closer, lured in by his presence and emotions.

Involuntarily he lifted his left hand as his right searched out his dagger, only to freeze and cry out as pain shot across his hand and arm. Greenish yellow lightning arced across his arm, a horrible pressure building up under his skin before releasing through his palm. A tether of light hit the tear, ripping it open with a shockwave and all at once gravity went wrong side up. The Despair demons were pulled into nothingness and all the air in the room seemed to follow for all of a few breathless seconds. The hole he tore open in the ceiling closed in a blink, the air and dust settling as if there had been nothing more than a gentle breeze, and Lavellan was left standing alone in an empty room.

"Oh," he said, staring at his glowing palm, before passing out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love how in the game you get thrown around like a ragdoll, get avalanched down about 7+ meters into a stone tunnel, hike your way a good couple km in freezing mountainous terrain in the middle of a snowstorm and are then cured by a good nap and a Disney song.
> 
> Anyway excited for the next chapter, hope you guys like cuddling for warmth.


	15. Heat and Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes finally one of my favorite tropes
> 
> Sharing body heat for survival
> 
> Mild cw for description of injuries

Dorian stared listlessly into the weak fire on the edge of the temporary camp. They were far enough from Haven that the only part of it left visible was the blaze. 

Lavellan was still there, somewhere.

Varric sat close, tending to his flask, while Bull simply stood, watching and waiting. Nobody else approached their little fire, either due to pity or from blame. It was fair enough, Lavellan had trusted them to watch his back, but instead they had essentially left him to die; either by the hand of the monster, it's pet dragon, or from the avalanche that buried the remnants of Haven. 

Dorian clenched his numb hands and closed his eyes. Lavellan told them to run- that was true- but if they had stayed, if he could have given him a barrier, if they had just tried to distract that _thing_ …

It probably would have gotten all four of them killed.

He still didn't know if he hated Bull for carrying him back. 

A voice called out over the distance, more joining it after just a moment. The Iron Bull stiffened as Commander Cullen ran through the snow, breathless, "they found him," and then both the Commander and Bull were gone.

It was all Dorian heard, the relief pouring over him like a tidal wave as hope began to spring back. He didn't honestly think Lavellan would survive, that he'd had one too many miracles already and the Maker was all out. He should have known otherwise. Dorian stood dumbly, Varric muttering "Andraste's flaming tits" in awe beside him.

Time moved not unlike Redcliffe, in a temporal haze that stretched and hastened in fits. Bull appeared again as quickly as he left, a limp bundle held in his arms, an entourage at his heels as he plowed through the snow towards the closest available tent. A hand slipped from under Cullen's furry cloak, the palm of it glowing and crackling a sickly greenish-yellow.

"He's really alive," Varric continued, "he is right?"

Dorian didn't know but he was certainly going to find out. He wordlessly stumbled his way to the tent in a daze.

The tent was stuffed full; a few of those Varric jokingly referred to as the "inner circle", all the advisors, as well as the resident surgeon. Josephine was quick to excuse herself as the no-nonsense surgeon began methodically stripping the armor from Lavellan and slicing through whatever else stood in the way. Then it was just him, Cullen, Leliana, Cassandra, Bull, and Madame de Fer- although a scout came and stole the Nightingale away shortly after Josephine left.

As more layers were removed, the extent of Lavellan's damage became abundantly clear, even without the surgeon's toneless cataloguing. A wound on his head, bleeding sluggishly around the red stained ice that had formed across his skin. Several other lacerations from Maker knew what, all of which were clotted with bloody ice, but would bleed again readily as soon as he thawed. He was worryingly pale, skin tinged blue and waxy looking from afar, and his chest was hardly moving with each breath. His front was a series of bruises, with an especially dark patch above his ribs. "Broken, two of them. Fractured a third most likely," the surgeon muttered brusquely, feeling around none too gently. 

The bruises weren't what held Dorian's attention though.

Lavellan had a number of scars along his chest; one or two that looked like spots where he had either been stabbed or had an arrow lodged, nothing unusual for a warrior. What were unusual were the three deep gauging scars not unlike the one on his cheek, vibrant red slashes against his skin. Seeing the scars left from weapons and being able to compare them to these, Dorian realized that Lavellan wouldn't have had those scars before the Conclave. 

He must have gotten them when he walked physically in the Fade or before they had met.

"-he needs a mage at this rate," the surgeon said roughly. He had apparently missed quite the circular discourse while staring at Lavellan's frosty body. "He needs heat _and_ healing. Body heat will only get you so far with this type of cold."

"I can heal the normal way, but Qunari run colder than humans and especially elves. I'm no Saarebas, I'll leave it to you," Bull shrugged, leaving the tent.

"You expect us to let a mage near him? One wrong move and they turn him to ash."

"If they are unskilled, of course that would be an issue. However, you have two highly skilled mages right here, dear."

"Is there not another way?"

"Maybe," the surgeon griped, tending to Lavellan's painfully swollen ankle with practiced hands. She had already wrapped a splint around his left wrist, and Dorian tried to ignore the image of Lavellan being lifted off the ground by it, monster leering over him. "He'll die 'fore you find it though."

"Then it has been decided."

"It has _not_ ," Cullen growled.

"It has, darling. Now then, Lord Pavus, certainly you have some prowess with healing, do you not?"

Dorian managed to pull his eyes away from the small branching lightning scar on the outside of Lavellan's thigh, swallowing thickly. In the Imperium, healing magic is a school reserved for Altus women and the lower classes. Such a thing never stopped his rather insatiable thirst for knowledge, and his mother was a very skilled healer albeit mediocre teacher. Back home, admission to such knowledge would get an Altus male ridiculed, but he had to remember he was far away from Tevinter. "My mother is quite adept. She may have imparted some of that skill to me." He was no spirit healer, but he'd be enough if need be. 

"That's good to hear. Then you will be the best candidate to tend to our fallen Herald." Disagreements and disapproval bubbled up from everyone in the room, including from Dorian, but Vivienne ignored it all. "He would likely be more comfortable with our dear Lord Pavus than he would me. Unless you wish to find _and_ convince Solas-"

Cullen sighed balefully as Cassandra waved a hand. "No, you are correct. Dorian is the best option we have, like it or not."

"I certainly don't like it," Cullen snapped, but allowed Cassandra to lead him from the tent. "I want Templars nearby just in case."

"I don't know whether to be offended or flattered," Dorian muttered darkly.

"Now, now, darling, no need for that. This is a delicate task, requiring a great deal of skill. None of the apostates can handle such a thing and our healers do not have the required speed or resources. You and I are the only choices available."

"Why do I feel more like a scapegoat should anything go catastrophically wrong then," Dorian groused, eyeing the number of lyrium potions the surgeon was leaving within arms reach of Lavellan's frigid body. If he was being honest with himself, which he wasn't, the thought of leaving Lavellan in anyone else's hands, literally, had him feeling less than pleased.

  
  


"You failed Lavellan at Haven," Vivienne replied coldly- colder than the elf in the room. "You won't fail him again." And with that she breezed from the tent.

Dorian… didn't have a reply anyway.

"Right, everything sorted?" The surgeon asked tiredly, having finished up her part of the work some time ago. 

"I hope. What do you need me to do?"

"Strip."

Dorian spluttered, "I beg your-"

"Your clothes are only going to get in the way. He needs heat, and he'll be getting it from you 'til he can make it on his own. Keep your smalls if you want, but skin contact will be best. It has to be gradual else his heart will give out, so keep a steady body temperature but nothing more. His kind run hotter than us, but it should be enough."

"This sounds utterly primitive- barbaric even," he protested weakly, but was already shakily taking off his warm outer robes.

"It's the best practice we have in these cold regions. Highest survival rate, though the Herald will be cutting it close." The surgeon leveled him with a flat look as she piled a few more blankets on top of the prone elf. "He shouldn't be alive, but he is, for now. You just have to keep him that way. Get comfortable and keep him close to your body, heal what you can, but leave those ribs to mend on their own. Magic is shite for broken bones, so only fix 'em if the shivers make 'em dangerous. They'll be bad, but necessary. Once he gets warm enough to shiver himself out, he'll be in the clear."

"Shivering is good, right," Dorian muttered, hesitating to strip further.

The surgeon rolled her eyes but mercifully stood to leave. "I'll be back to check on him in an hour or two. Remember to let him warm up slow but steady."

"Yes, yes," Dorian waved her away, nerves making him tremble.

This was all entirely too intimate and it had every nerve in his body screaming, but Lavellan was still unnaturally pale and the blood was beginning to thaw and run down his slack face in rivulets. Dorian swallowed, stripped down to his smalls and got under the massive pile of blankets, turning onto his side to pull Lavellan into his arms. Only to grunt because _fasta vass_ Lavellan was impossibly heavy for an elf. He was also painfully cold- the brush of his skin sent gooseflesh across the entirety of Dorian's body and he could feel himself start to shiver as Lavellan greedily leeched his body heat. It didn't even seem to make any difference.

Ignoring the deathly chill of Lavellan's clammy skin against his, Dorian set about healing the majority of the visible damage. The cuts and scrapes closed easily under his fingertips, the magic knitting his skin back together with some barely noticeable scars, but the nasty wound around his hairline put up more of a fight. Hopefully nothing internal was damaged. There wasn't much that could be done about the bruises, so he left them and focused next on keeping his skin at a normal body temperature, letting a minor heating spell wash over him. With how frozen the elf was, he suspected a non-mage would have had a much harder time doing this. He covered Lavellan's ears with his numb hands and let himself focus on the magic instead of how impossibly chilly they both felt.

Anything to keep himself from thinking about the limp, icy body tucked against him, hanging on by a brittle thread. 

He felt Lavellan's pulse under his fingers, faint but steady, his breath short but deep against his neck. The splint around his wrist and ankle dug into Dorian's flesh where he pressed flush against his body, hidden away under the oppressively heavy blankets. The blood and ice had thawed and smeared everywhere and was beginning to feel tacky against his skin. But Lavellan was alive. Dorian repeated it like a mantra for a wintry eternity.

He was alive and trembling minutely at first until reaching a full body shiver that had Dorian tightening his grip worriedly. "Shivering is good, shivering is very good. Congratulations, Pavus, the Herald lives another day," he babbled mindlessly. Lavellan was still cold to the touch, but his skin had lost most of the waxy blue cast. His face was pressed against Dorian's collar bones, but it didn't muffle the sudden pained groan and gasping breaths following after. Lavellan didn't seem to be awake, but whatever it was had him seemingly jerking away from his own shivers.

Dorian cursed, _his ribs_ , of course.

Gentle as he could, he pressed his fingertips against the damaged bones, flinching when he felt the pieces grind together with each involuntary spasm of Lavellan's muscles. What the surgeon said about magic and bones was true- they never healed quite right if mended by less traditional means- but Lavellan was likely to puncture a lung at this rate. That would be much more difficult to fix, with or without magic.

Dorian murmured an apology to the top of Lavellan's head as he pressed firmly against his battered ribcage, feeding tendrils of magic into the damaged tissues under the skin. Lavellan jolted and cried out with shock, still wracked with involuntary shivers and twitches of pain, but the gasping breaths began to even out again as the bones slid and clicked back into place. He could feel the newly repaired skeletal muscle stretch under his hands, not quite the same shape and fit as its predecessor given the wider gap it had to fill between two ribs. Another one of the mended ribs was slightly crooked in places. It wouldn't be too much of a detriment, but they would be far more liable to break again. 

It was enough though, and Lavellan's breath evened out as the pain subsided. His shivers were still full bodied and violent, but he was warming up and he was slightly more intact than when Dorian first started. 

Progress. 

Hands shaking from cold, or nerves, or mana drain he soothed circles into the nape of Lavellan's neck and gently along his back. "Don't you ever tell us to run and leave you behind again," Dorian muttered against Lavellan's forehead as the panic subsided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heck yeah


	16. Campfires in the Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't bear to sit on this chapter any longer
> 
> Here you go.

The spirits of the camp had lifted tremendously after Lavellan's miraculous return, recovery, and a special impromptu musical number courtesy of Mother Giselle. Dorian thought the man was going to either combust or flee into the Frostbacks after that little uncomfortable surprise. Amazingly, Lavellan had stayed, although he had been scarce ever since.

Also, Dorian may have been avoiding him- just a bit.

They had been on the move for about three days since the loss of Haven, moving towards some unknown thing in the distance under Lavellan's careful limping and the vague guidance of Solas. He should have been resting, but the cold had already claimed a few unfortunate souls, and the Inquisition had to move if it wanted to survive. Dorian still didn't approve of it. Lavellan would easily push himself to the brink if left to his own devices- likely in a very heroic and dramatic fashion.

Dorian sneezed unhappily.

His mana had restabilized a day and a half after Haven, but he'd been using a steady amount just to keep himself and whoever was next to him warm against the frigid wind. It was usually Varric but occasionally Sera would sneak close if she got desperate enough. He didn't use much but it was enough over time that it left him exhausted just in time for camp. The things he was forced to endure in the South.

Varric looked up at him from where he was scribbling away. "You okay there, Sparkler?"

"Not really."

Varric grunted in camaraderie.

Curious, "what are you writing?"

"I seem to have run across some inspiration for the next chapter of my romance serial."

Dorian squinted suspiciously. "Oh? Out here in the middle of nowhere?"

"What can I say, a good story always writes itself."

"I'm not featuring in this little scene, am I?"

"No, no of course not," Varric assured but then shrugged, "well not you, but maybe that thing you did with the Herald."

" _Maker_ , does everyone know?"

Dorian had been doing so well at avoiding what happened and who it happened with, until now. Almost naked cuddling with an elven man and accidental saviour of southern Thedas- it may have been purely to share body heat in a dire situation, but it was still…That age old shame and paranoia was back and licking at his heels. He garnered enough stares as is, but if anyone found out what he did, it could be twisted into something that could end either of them. He wasn't so concerned about his own reputation, he would forever be the evil magister here to corrupt Chantry sisters and eat babies and blood magic the Herald of Andraste into slavery. He would forever be a pariah, no matter where he went.

No, he was worried only about what people would think of Lavellan.

"Relax, Sparkler. The only people who know the saucier details are the Iron Lady and that tight-lipped surgeon. Nobody else but the inner circle got more than the bare minimum. Well, except Blackwall. I'm pretty sure he doesn't know anything."

Dorian swallowed thickly as his nervousness ebbed. "That's more comforting than you can imagine," he whispered, just barely audible over the fire.

Varric stared at him with an unreadable look for a long moment until he sighed. "You know, Lavellan's been looking for you."

Dorian knew. "Has he now?"

Varric huffed, quickly putting away his things before standing. "You two are cute, it's almost disgusting. Anyway, if the Seeker asks, I'm on the other side of camp."

Dorian frowned but let him walk away without a retort. Instead, he stared back at the pathetic fire in front of him and shivered. Neither he nor Lavellan could be described as cute in any way. Handsome? Certainly. But cute? 

Dorian sneezed again.

"I do not suppose you have seen Varric."

Ah, the Seeker. No wonder Varric had bolted. "I'm afraid he's likely at the other end of camp by now."

"Ugh, well- that's fine." Cassandra gingerly sat opposite of him, avoiding eye contact but posture taut as a bowstring. "It is probably better this way."

Dorian raised an eyebrow, watching the Seeker squirm in her seat. She hadn't come here to talk to Varric- not really.

"Alright Cassandra, I'll bite." 

Her "whatever do you mean" was almost convincing. But not really.

"You clearly have a question, for Varric maybe, but I imagine I'm involved in there somewhere since you are still here."

"Yes, well. I simply- I'd like to hear about it first hand." 

"Hear about what in particular? My supper? It was horrible by the way. Very watery and salty, and they had the gall to call it _soup_."

"No!" Cassandra looked disgusted before trying again, although quietly "regarding you and the Herald." So the Seeker could blush- well, almost. But it was something and Dorian revelled in the sight. 

Until he realized what she was asking.

" _Kaffas_ , living up to your title are you?"

"Well, yes, it's-" Cassandra sighed. "It is forward of me, I know." She stood and turned away before sighing again, dramatic and wistful, "but I must know."

"Because you are worried I debased your precious Herald?"

"No- well actually-" she shook her head. "No, I only wish to know… how it felt."

Dorian stared at her dumbly, "what?"

"It's just… like something from a book. To be twisted in each others arms, bringing the other back from the hands of death, lying beside a roaring fireplace-"

"There were no fireplaces involved-"

"It is- it is so _romantic_ , Dorian. Everything about it just," she sighed again.

The Seeker… was a hopeless romantic?

He didn't know what to say.

"Well, it was mostly cold. He also sneezed on my face."

Cassandra's posture never changed, but her weak "oh" made her deflation clear enough.

Look at him, dashing her hopes and dreams of love like Tevinter had dashed his. "But-" Dorian fumbled, noting the way she seemed to hang onto the word, eager and hopeful.

He swallowed and licked his lips, recalling that moment. He hadn't allowed himself to dwell; the shame and fear twisted up with how it shouldn't have felt so good but did, how wonderful it was to have reassurance and a second chance under his fingertips, to protect and help and heal someone who had become so important to him. He hadn't minded the cold, the clammy waxiness of his frozen skin, even getting sneezed on. 

"But, it was… a moment shared between the two of us and-"

Cassandra was quiet, waiting with bated breath.

More than that, when the shivers stopped and Lavellan had begun to wake-

"He… asked me if I was a dream."

Cassandra exhaled sharply, incredulous, "truly?" She turned back to face him, awestruck and the definition of _cute,_ although maybe not according to Varric. "It really _is_ romantic," she murmured dreamily. 

Dorian supposed it kind of was. 

Cassandra jolted, catching herself and pointing a threatening finger at him, "tell noone of this."

"Oh, trust me, it's not something I'll be spreading around. I do enjoy being alive."

Cassandra sized him up but nodded, turning away and leaving him alone with the fire, fueled by little more than a rudimentary glyph and sheer determination at this point. He supposed he should go find an empty bedroll to curl up in now that the bustle of the camp was slowing down. 

He didn't move.

"Dorian," Lavellan's voice startled a tiny noise from him. How he had suddenly become so popular was beyond him, but he wished he had left when he still could.

"Lavellan," Dorian stood, pointedly not making eye contact. "Shouldn't you be resting? I'm quite certain you should be resting."

"Shouldn't you be resting too?"

Dorian faltered, glancing towards the elf. He had a long and thick fur coat over him, Cullen's coat, hiding the way he still shivered easily in the cold. It also helped to hide the noticeable limp he'd acquired but was gradually losing as they hiked, unintentionally furthering the belief that he was some untouchable god avatar. 

"You've been avoiding me," Lavellan stated quietly. 

He looked so sad- "it's not- well a little, but not because of you." Lavellan looked less sad and more confused. He wasn't sure if that was an improvement. "It's… I was worried about you."

"I thought I had scared you off. Madame de Fer told me what you had done for me." The elf tucked the cloak further around his shoulders. "I just wanted to thank you. I'd be dead twice over without you."

"You couldn't scare me off so easily, although I would like you to refrain from trying again. I rather like seeing you alive and in one piece."

Lavellan gave him a soft smile, chuckling softly under his breath, "I won't make any promises, but I'll do my best." His cheeks were red and his hair mussed from the wind, he looked tired, posture slouching over his sore ribs. He looked small in that fluffy coat, but to Dorian… he felt larger than life. Like he was just out of reach. He suddenly wanted little else but to take Lavellan into his arms. "I'm glad you are here, Dorian."

"I'm glad you are here too." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra kills me inside. I love her so much. 
> 
> My usual squad is Dorian, Varric, and Cassandra if that tells you anything about me.


	17. The Inquisitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ughhhn I have too many chapters piling up and it's becoming a pain in the ass to scroll through my google doc
> 
> So just- take another chapter.

If anything cemented Lavellan's position as a grand hero/godlike entity, it would be finding a place like Skyhold in the middle of the thrice damned Frostbacks. It was an impressive structure despite the disrepair, simmering with old magic that gave it an eternal spring in the middle of the mountains. It was almost absurd.

The Inquisition set up quickly, clearing rubble and setting tents and work stations with startling efficiency. Dorian left them to it, having never been much for manual labor, and instead went about wandering around. Plenty of places were off limits due to structural issues and piles of debris, so he regrettably didn't get very far. 

He made it back to the courtyard just in time to see Lavellan stumble into the first available tent.

Dorian's feet were carrying him down the stairs to the courtyard before he knew it. It was just to check in on him, so he reasoned, they hadn't talked since that time by the fire, which was entirely too long ago. He was fortunate that everybody was too busy to pay him any attention as he slipped into the tent after the elf. Dorian wasn't exactly sure what he had come here to do or say, but none of that really mattered since Lavellan was belly side down on top of a bedroll breathing slowly and evenly with sleep, still wearing his full armor. For some reason, he hadn't expected the Herald to be taking a nap. He probably should have, given that Lavellan had been leading them tirelessly through the mountains without a single complaint. 

He wondered how much sleep he'd actually been able to get since Haven. Given the dark circles under his eyes, Dorian would wager not much. A nap would do him some good, but maybe not arranged like this. Tutting, if only for appearances and his own nerves, Dorian stooped to start working the heavy armor off Lavellan's body. He got both boots free and set to the side and was working on the right gauntlet when Lavellan stirred awake.

"Dorian," the elf mumbled drowsily, smiling softly up at him. 

"Lavellan," he greeted in return. "You shouldn't sleep in your accoutrements."

"I shouldn't," he agreed, eyes slipping closed. "But I have been. It's not so bad."

Dorian frowned, "you've been sleeping in your armor? For how long?"

Lavellan was quiet, poorly feigning sleep but looking quite contrite when Dorian tutted again. "Well, that just won't do. Allow me to offer my services in undressing you and coercing you into bed."

It had been such a long time since he'd heard Lavellan's laugh and by the Maker had he missed it. "I don't need much coercion to get into bed from you, but your services are greatly appreciated," he drawled and Maker had he missed _Lavellan._

"Now, now, what will people say," Dorian joked, a poor deflection as he slipped Lavellan's pauldrons loose. He was leaning quite far over the elf's body despite attempting to keep his touch clinical and detached. 

"Probably something stupid," Lavellan shrugged, fingers fumbling at his belts in a useless attempt to help. 

Dorian barked a laugh, "quite! Turn for me will you?" The elf under his hands complied with a sleepy noise, sighing in relief as the heavy plate mail was worked free. "I imagine this has done your ribcage no good."

"A little. The pressure has been nice while I move."

"Pity you aren't still moving then, isn't it."

"I should be though," Lavellan murmured. "There's much to be done. Instead I'm here lounging around being undressed by a handsome man."

"The Herald of Andraste, _napping_? Recovering from his wounds? Such a travesty." Dorian shushed him before he could go and say something else endearing and painfully noble. "You need the rest. You have a small army of people already at work, and there will be plenty of heroically menial tasks waiting for you when you wake up." 

Dorian squeezed Lavellan's shoulder as he slipped the last bits of armor off, leaving him in his tight leggings and sleeveless tunic. Instead of manhandling him under the blankets, he simply grabbed some from another bedroll. Lavellan watched with drooping eyes, quiet as he let himself be tucked in.

"You're so good to me," he whispered before Dorian could leave. 

Lavellan had been good to him too- never once calling him anything but his name and never treating him unfairly or with disdain. Even though he would be well within his rights to keep him at a distance. Instead he had invited him along on his treks, interacted with him as a person- an equal, and even humored his opinions and awkward conversations. Lavellan was easy to be good to, because he deserved it and more. How could Dorian give him any less?

"Certainly I'm not the only one," Dorian replied. Lavellan looked thin- perhaps he could have someone bring him some food for when he woke again. "Everyone is quite fond of you." That would be a good idea.

"Perhaps," Lavellan shrugged weakly, sleep visibly pulling at him. "Thank you, Dorian."

"Of course. Sleep well."

Dorian waited until Lavellan was breathing slow and even before peeking out of the tent. In the clear, he slipped back out, flagging down a servant to have some fruits and bread left for Lavellan on his way back into Skyhold proper. There were plenty of things that could use some magical lifting, hearths in need of fire, and puddles in need of evaporating so he busied himself in hopes of passing time and pushing Lavellan from his mind.

It worked, until the news of who and what the creature who attacked Haven, who the Elder One was, started to make rounds through the ranks. 

Corypheus- ancient Tevinter magister, original darkspawn, and proof of all the things he wished were untrue about his country. He missed the impromptu ceremony in the courtyard, spying from a filthy window in the alcove of a dusty shell of a library. They were making Lavellan their Inquisitor, something long overdue in his opinion. He looked so hesitant that it startled a laugh from Dorian, but the position suited Lavellan. Reluctance and doubt, he'd take those over pride and thoughtless acceptance any day. Lavellan was already a good choice, and Dorian could only see him doing even greater things in the future now that he was given the opportunity and freedom.

Lavellan should be proud of himself. Dorian wished he could say the same.


	18. Skyhold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vivienne and Dorian become something to the left of friends

"Easy boys!" Bull yelled across the throne room, "I know it's a wench but not _that_ kind!"

Krem said something no doubt incredibly crass in response, drowned out from all the clatter in the future throne room. Dorian chuckled as Vivienne tutted nearby, less than impressed by the Charger's manners. Lavellan's laughter rang out bright over the noise of all the restoration work and Dorian had to physically keep himself from turning to the source.

They'd been in Skyhold for almost a week now, making the place at least moderately hospitable while waiting for Varric's friend to arrive and for the newly appointed Inquisitor to heal more fully. It was slow going, to say the least. Dorian, one of the most skilled mages inside and outside the Tevinter Imperium, had been reduced to _scaffold erector._ He helped develop time magic. 

This was almost an insult. 

The only saving grace came in the form of Lavellan (to the surprise of absolutely noone). His wounds had healed enough for light manual labor, which apparently meant something completely different to the elf. He was in his light leggings, knee high slim boots, and that sinful sleeveless tunic and the sight was _incredibly distracting_. He was sweaty and flushed and easily lifting huge wooden beams and tossing large bits of masonry around like nothing. Dorian found himself becoming rather jealous of the inanimate rubble. 

He'd pass by where the mages were delicately assembling scaffolding on occasion to drop off bits of lumber or heavy coils of rope. Each time Dorian's eyes would follow.

"Careful darling, construction is no place for distraction," Vivienne warned after Lavellan had walked far enough away.

Dorian may have been unabashedly watching him bend over to pick something up. "I haven't the faintest idea what you could be talking about." 

Vivienne arched a single perfect eyebrow.

"Warm and gentle, like sunlight. I wish he would smile all the time," a soft voice came from behind him and Dorian yelped. 

He was fortunately not in the middle of a spell, which left him free to whirl upon whoever decided to spook him. Only to find nobody there.

What was he mad about again?

Vivienne sighed, "our Inquisitor's resident demon is out and about again. Pay it no mind."

Oh! "That strange boy? The one that acts as a spirit but has the body of a human? How fascinating- it upends the findings of at least twelve scholars and an entire Circle back in Tevinter. I've been-"

"You aren't planning on leaving your post are you, Sparkler?" Varric chuckled, glancing up from his seat on a nearby crate.

"I imagine I've earned a break," Dorian huffed, "unlike some people here who are failing to contribute to the new homestead."

"Are you implying I'm not working? I'll have you know I have the most important job here and one you'll appreciate me doing." Dorian rolled his eyes as Varric lifted up a mug in a mock toast. The dwarf shot him a knowing smile before calling out, "your drink, your Inquisitorialness."

Lavellan was over in a second, "Creators bless you, Varric. Bull kept offering me something that smelled like paint and I was starting to get desperate."

Everyone collectively grimaced while Varric replied, "yeah, don't drink it. It'll probably melt your teeth."

Lavellan downed the entire contents of the mug like a dying man and Dorian watched the bob of his throat, the trickle escaping his lips, and the contented sigh at the end like he was transfixed. None of what he saw could match how Lavellan lifted the edges of his tunic to wipe the sweat and spill from his face, giving Dorian full view of his incredibly chiseled stomach. He stared.

The moment he managed to tug his eyes away, he realized Lavellan was staring back.

The elf smiled and _winked_ -

Dorian's brain may have stopped working.

"Really now, dear. You are the newly appointed Inquisitor. You must show a bit more decorum," Madame de Fer admonished, hands on her hips and overall thoroughly unimpressed.

"I'll do my best, my lady," Lavellan gave a curt bow. "But I can't bear to make any promises I may not be able to keep."

"Your morality knows no bounds, darling."

"Yeah, leave some morals for the rest of us," Varric huffed.

Lavellan's no doubt modest and heartfelt retort was cut off before it began by Bull calling to him from across the hall. "I suppose I should get back to work. Thank you for the tea, Varric."

"Of course, Smiles."

Once Lavellan was back helping the Iron Bull lift a rusty chandelier Varric turned to Dorian with a grin. "Told you."

The dwarf was right. He was incredibly thankful for his contribution and wished he would do it again. "You've never offered any of us tea."

Varric shrugged, "he asked so politely. Besides I owed him a drink after he cleaned me out in our last game of Wicked Grace."

"The Inquisitor plays Wicked Grace?" Dorian frowned, "that's hard to imagine actually."

"Don't let appearances fool you, Sparkler. He's cutthroat."

"Lovely as this chat is, the Inquisitor did entrust us with a task," Vivienne interrupted. "Come along, dear. There's much work to be done."

Dorian sighed but followed her dutifully over to the next pile of lumber, energizing the beams and holding them still as Vivienne delicately worked on the bracings. They worked quietly- unlike the rest of the people in the cavernous hall and he found that he rather missed the friendly banter from before.

"I see you have developed a certain fondness for our dear Inquisitor, Dorian."

Dorian took back his wish. "I could say the same about you, Madame."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Don't think I didn't see you enjoying a nice cup of tea with Lavellan over some petit fours the other day. The balcony you chose hides so little."

Vivienne laughed, "oh, that? The Inquisitor is a man who will shape the future of this world. It would be foolish to ignore such a presence and not influence it towards more beneficial paths. However, my interests are purely business, unlike yours."

The thought of using Lavellan as a tool for political gain left a sour note in Dorian's throat, but the insinuation of his interest in the elf was what really twisted his stomach. Varric was one thing, Vivienne was another. "Of course. My interests are academic as well."

"Certainly, darling. Your pursuit of knowledge is admirable and limitless, although often misguided. I was offered a review of your work, seized after the arrest of your former patron."

He shouldn't have been surprised the Inquisition would have spirited all that away, though he had wondered if it had all been burned or locked away. Hopefully it hadn't been copied. "Ah, yes. Theoretical magic is my specialty, as you probably well know."

"Your note-taking is impressive in its thoroughness. Which is why I'd like to offer an arrangement. I have work to be done restoring the Circles, and the knowledge lost due to their dissolution is immeasurable."

"My dear Vivienne, are you offering me some sort of scholarly collaboration?"

"I merely dislike wasting resources."

"And you are fortunate I dislike having idle hands," Dorian laughed. "I'll help you with your little mage prison project. It'll be like a cultural exchange program, Tevinter excess meeting Southern conservatism. How charming."

"Try not to bring _too_ much of your homeland with you, Dorian dear." 

"Of course. You'd never get all the blood out of this stone."

Later on, while nursing a glass of red wine spirited away from Lavellan's stash, tucked into the little library alcove he had claimed as his own, Dorian found his theoretical notes on Fade manipulation. Someone had helpfully left them on his desk, on top of all his other works in progress. The cover of the journal was both unmistakable and painfully nostalgic. The phoenix hide bindings were wearing thin and the summer stone bevels had been chipped, the Alexius family crests emblazoned on the front and back were beginning to fade and peel. A testament to its use. He had poured so much of his mind- his _life_ into the study of Fade manipulation, working for years on the all the little what-ifs. He hadn't really considered the 'why' behind fiddling with time, just the 'why not'. In hindsight, he should have seen the obvious writing on the wall. Alexius had never been content with the necromancy, spirit healing, or stasis. 

Half-measures, he called it all.

He had wanted to believe that Alexius had still been within reason, enough at least to know the dangers of actually putting such things into practice. He had been wrong, and was a firsthand witness to a testament of the fact. 

Gingerly he picked the voluminous text up and idly flicked through the pages. His own smooth cursive was interspersed with Gereon's script, a few notes and supporting papers slipped between the pages. It was now a chronicle of his mentor's slow slip into madness, as his penmanship became more forceful and disjointed. Ink blots pressed into pages from where the quill tip sat, smudges, scratches instead of delicate line-outs, meandering scribbles and half-thoughts. He wondered if there was anything left of his mentor in the man held in Skyhold's cells.

Funny, how he should make it out of Haven when so many others did not.

He had thought about visiting the man. Alexius had picked him up from one of his lowest points, giving him hope in the future and a chance to thrive. He'd given him a space of his own, freedom he hadn't felt before, thought provoking work, respect without expectation, and companionship that lacked the typical Tevinter strings. He had looked up to Alexius; he was- had been a good man. He didn't want the Alexius he remembered, the one he discussed reforms with over brandy, the one who took pride in doing good, the one who listened even if he didn't agree, to be replaced by the despondent husk he was now.

Now that Lavellan was Inquisitor, he wondered if the elf would be the judge of Alexius' fate. He had mentioned his hopes of mercy to Lavellan once- although now he wondered if he should have. Making demands as if it were his place. 

Dorian shut the tome and ran his hand back over the worn leather binding. This was the original copy, and given how scattered the supporting contents were, it likely hadn't been duplicated yet, at least not in full. Magic hummed in his veins as he pulled his mana and ignited his fingertips, the arcane energy dissolving the book in a smokeless fire, reducing it to ash in little more than a minute.

He had expected it to feel cathartic in a way. Instead he just felt like he needed more wine.

Dorian looked up to see Leliana watching him impassively. Smiling, he lifted his wine glass to her in a little nod before going back to his chair and settling in. It was time to start a new project- less theoretical and more historical- and likely to do some good for once.


	19. The Fate of Felix Alexius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a rough day and I need a distraction from work so here is a chapter so that I can stop having to scroll crazy far

" _Dear Dorian,_

_How lovely it is to hear of your safety after the news of Haven. Your little project has been bearing some fruits here in Tevinter, and I've sent some back as thanks. Do try to share."_

"Oh, Mae, darling," Dorian chuckled as he popped another honeyed date between his lips. "You ask so much of me."

" _The political climate here is beginning to get a tad stormy, but don't you fret. You are doing good work- just saying your name has some of these magisters spitting fire! It's worked wonders for identifying potential Venatori sympathizers._ "

Dorian frowned. No doubt things were getting dangerous for Maevaris if she had to tell him not to worry and then attempt to distract him with flattery. He'd need to put in a request for resources.

" _Your friend Felix Alexius took the Magisterium floor the other day._ " His heart skipped a beat. " _He looked well, and his speech- my, if you could have heard it. I hadn't heard such a powerful and heartfelt message before, and certainly never before in the Magisterium. I've attached a transcript, for your pleasure. Reactions were mixed, but your Inquisition is undoubtedly becoming a rather hot topic here, and for good reason. As has your Inquisitor."_

Dorian chuckled, practically seeing the suggestive eyebrow waggle Mae no doubt sported while writing that line.

" _I'm afraid the poor boy took ill in earnest not long after. He passed-"_ Dorian had to look away. Felix was a true friend, and while he knew the man's death was inevitable, it still left a hollow ache in his heart. He would need to inform Gereon. His eyes skipped ahead.

" _Fear not, Dorian. Be proud._

_I cannot wait to see you in Tevinter once more. The parties have been dreadfully dull without your presence._

_All the best,_

_Mae"_

Dorian clutched the letter close to his chest as he unfolded the official transcript of Felix's speech and read. Maevaris was right as usual, it was a glowing message of praise and hope for a better tomorrow. His last words.

"Dorian?" Lavellan had stopped by the entrance to his little alcove, likely on his way over to Vivienne or Leliana. 

"Ah, Inquisitor." Dorian slapped a smirk on his face and turned. "I do so love how you're always on the move. It's tiring to watch you."

"There's always something to be done," the elf sighed, but there was a faint smile hidden in his lips. 

"You like it though, be honest."

Lavellan raised his hands in surrender, the smile widened. "You've caught me." His eyes seemed to linger on Dorian's face for a moment. "Something good in the mail? You have honey in your uh-" Lavellan pointed vaguely at his own face for reference.

Dorian had a handkerchief out in a second, "how uncouth of me. Although it is impossible to eat honeyed dates without making a mess."

"They certainly sound messy, although I've never tried them before."

"Well now, that certainly is something to be remedied," Dorian clicked his tongue and offered the box of treats.

Something akin to recognition flashed across Lavellan's face as he delicately took one of the sweet fruits. He chewed thoughtfully, or maybe absently was a better word for it since he seemed to be staring off into the distance. "Haurasha'miol," the elf muttered before catching himself, "sorry I- these are very good."

"They are a favorite of mine," Dorian sighed, looking at the candied fruits wistfully. "I haven't had them since leaving Tevinter. I'll need to write Mae again. Perhaps if I flatter her more she'll send me some proper wine."

Lavellan snorted, "is mine not good enough?"

"Inquisitor, we both know your tavern only sells swill."

"That's untrue. My tavern sells alcoholic nugpiss as well. I was referring to my collection of vintages, which I _have_ seen you sneaking into." 

Dorian chuckled, "I'm hardly the only one. Varric and Sera are quite fond of your more eclectic bottles."

"It's impossible to keep either of them out of anything. Try to share."

' _Do try to share,'_ ah, yes, an unhappy reminder of the letter still in his hands. Maevaris would be proud that he'd made companions here, strange and tenuous as they were. Felix would have been prouder.

His face must've betrayed his inner thoughts because Lavellan was suddenly looking at him with concern. "Dorian?"

He'd likely wish to know about Felix as well. "I received something else with Mae's letter," Dorian began haltingly, only to falter completely. He swallowed and handed the transcript of Felix's speech to Lavellan. "A glowing testimonial."

The elf was quiet as he digested the words in front of him. Dorian turned away, eyes scouring for where he set his wine glass and some of that Antivan stock Josephine had given him.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Dorian. Felix was a good man."

"Yes, well, he was living on borrowed time. It was inevitable." _All things die_ , he'd known Felix didn't have much longer. 

Lavellan's touch at his elbow had him slumping, his words soft, "that doesn't make it hurt any less."

Dorian exhaled sharply, "it doesn't, does it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used the Project Elvhen lexicon to make a certain word that will get a translation later (unless you look it up ahead of time in which laaaaame)
> 
> I dunno how to make nice links to other fics, but absolutely do check out their projects because holy shit is it impressive
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/series/229061
> 
> Big shoutout to them for doing something so thorough and amazing!


	20. Breath of Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My fav chapter so far....

Lavellan stood in the quiet hallway between the war room and Josephine's reception, staring out onto the sloping Frostbacks. The afternoon sun glittered blindingly off the untouched snow, the sky a vibrant cloudless blue. It was peaceful, the hum of activity a dull afterthought under the chirping birds and sighing winds. Lavellan shivered in the draft and huffed a breath, turning away from the massive crumbling hole in the wall and making his way back to the main hall.

Skyhold was- words couldn't describe it while giving it the justice it deserved. He was fortunate Solas knew of it, that he had made it this far, and that things had gone the way they had. Haven had been no place to set up a base of operations, Vivienne was correct, but who could have expected an archdemon to come leading an army of former Templars?

The thought of Corypheus had his stomach twisting. He could still feel the twinge in his wrist as the darkspawn's grip ground his bones together, the singing burn of the red lyrium so close to him, the smell of death and decay and foul magic. His mark- the Anchor- had been burning and aching ever since, up until just this morning, after Solas said he looked pained and offered to look at it for him. Whatever he did helped, Creators bless the man, and now he was left with nothing more than a dull throb in his hand and the bitter memories of failure. He had met with Hawke a few days prior, hoping for good news. Instead, all he learned was that he had likely gained another enemy. First the Venatori, then the Templars, now the Grey Wardens. And he had… what? 

A strange assortment of people, an armada of peasants, and a magical _thing_ in his hands that ached like a sore tooth. His base of operations was a crumbling castle in the middle of nowhere with dubious origins, his only lead was a single Warden who may or may not be dead already, he still couldn't get an invitation to Halamshiral, and he still had no idea where Corypheus was going to get a demon army. His advisors were doing everything they could- but he was pretty sure Leliana was spiraling and Cullen was apparently suffering from lyrium withdrawal and had been for quite some time. He just narrowly kept Cassandra from killing Varric, Cole from pissing off half his staff, Bull from fucking the other half of his staff, and Sera from burning anything down. Then there was the arcanist they had recently acquired- who had already managed to get an anvil stuck in the ceiling, Alexius who was sitting in the only decent cell in Skyhold, and three specialists just arrived and all were overeager to teach him their respective crafts.

He felt like he was wrangling oiled nugs.

And there was still so much to be done.

Lavellan sighed, hand motionless on the door ring as he lightly thumped his head against the wood despondently. He still had a soaked pack full of research materials to drop off, bundles of hides and minerals to give Harritt and Dagna, then there was the matter with Dennett- the door swung open. Lavellan barely caught himself from falling forward into Cassandra.

"Oh. Inquisitor," she said, confused.

"Cassandra."

"I did not expect to see you. Right behind the door."

"That makes two of us I suppose," Lavellan muttered. Tilting his head in curiosity, "were you heading to the war room?"

"Yes, I was hoping to find Leliana or Cullen. There is a matter that is of concern to me- you look unwell."

"Thanks," Lavellan drawled with an arched eyebrow. He always appreciated her bluntness, although maybe not when it was aimed at him.

"Is there," Cassandra hesitated. "Would you like to discuss it?"

Lavellan stared dumbly. He would, actually. Cassandra had a certain self-assuredness he found refreshing, and her generally levelheaded pragmatism was soothing. But "I wouldn't want to impose-"

"Not at all." Cassandra offered him a faint smile. "Come, a walk will do us both some good."

One walk along the ramparts admiring the fortifications that devolved into a heated and enthusiastic discussion of various fighting techniques later, Lavellan found himself staring at the Frostbacks alone again. He felt a bit lighter, oddly enough, but it wouldn't be long until the worry seeped it's way back into his heart. He needed to go to Crestwood sooner rather than later.

"Nice view," Bull's smooth timbre from behind startled him from his thoughts.

"It is rather scenic isn't it?"

"Wasn't talking about the mountains," Bull smirked and Lavellan laughed. The Qunari always managed to ease his mood. He had been a rock during the more tumultuous beginnings of the Inquisition- when Lavellan just needed something to ground him during the initial storm, when things would get to be too much. "You look like you could hit something."

"Do I really?"

The Iron Bull simply grabbed his waist and steered him down towards the training area, with a laugh. "I know that look when I see it." 

A few hours later, Sera throwing bread at them from her window about twenty minutes in and Blackwall joining their lighthearted sparring session not long after, Lavellan found himself sitting alone on a crate in the training yard, shivering at the sweat drying on his skin but mind oddly clear, staring up at the setting sun. The tips of the Frostbacks were painted orange and pink and the sky had grown cloudy, the soft green of the Breach barely noticeable. 

Lavellan's stomach growled angrily, and belatedly he realized he hadn't eaten since early in the morning. He missed the evening meal time, but that suited him just fine. He disliked eating with a crowd- especially a crowd of nobles. Wandering his way back into the hall, Lavellan gravitated towards Varric's table, nodding to one of the attendant servants who then skittered off to the kitchens. 

Dully he felt as though he would be disturbing the dwarf with his presence, busy as he was with writing. Varric was always quick to assure him otherwise though, so he gamely took a seat near the head of the table. Further away from the organized chaos of Varric's work, and thus unnoticed for a brief minute or two, but close enough to chat. Arguably his favorite thing to do with the dwarf aside from clear space in his coin purse.

Varric eventually looked up at him from his letters and beamed, "Smiles! You're looking… sweaty."

Lavellan laughed, "everyone seems to have opinions on how I look today."

"I haven't offered my opinion yet," Dorian's voice came from nearby, having likely just come down the side staircase. He had an unopened bottle of wine in one hand and a letter in the other. "Which is that you look dashing as always."

"Thanks, Dorian." Lavellan looked down at himself and grimaced. He was indeed rather sweaty; dark patches stained his front, back, and under his arms. He likely stunk too, but Varric and Dorian, who had joined the table, didn't comment. In fact the latter was looking at him rather intently.

He had been for awhile now, at first with just the occasional hidden glance but now his attention seemed more forward. Lavellan couldn't say he minded- in fact he quite enjoyed all the charming banter, all those appreciative looks he'd send his way when he thought he was being subtle, and just the comfort of the man's presence. He wondered if Dorian would come to Crestwood with him if he asked.

"Maevaris had a letter for you, Varric, tucked in amongst all the ones for me. Something about your cousin-"

"Ah, cousin Thorold." Varric scratched his chin thoughtfully while taking the offered letter, "he was one mean Diamondback player. Hawke and Broody would shit their smalls if they learned I was related to a magister."

A servant delivered a platter of breads, cheeses, cured slices of meat, and various fruits to the table while another brought a carafe of wine and three glasses. Lavellan thanked them but wasted no time digging in, his hunger having only gotten more pronounced over time. He let Varric and Dorian's chatter wash over him as his eyes wandered to the few Tevinter mosaic tiles hanging across the way.

Another thing he seemed to be collecting- alongside those all those shards he needed more research on. Then there was the matter of the oculara- barbaric, horrible, monstrous things. He'd been marking them so as to have them removed but more always seemed to pop up. Perhaps he could send some people out to...

"Lavellan?" Dorian was looking at him amusedly.

The platter of food had been moved and was mostly polished off, and no doubt with help. The carafe of wine was empty but Dorian's bottle was opened and his glass filled. A small plate with a piece of strawberry layer cake sat in front of him now. He felt a twinge of panic- had he missed the servant bringing it or had Cole come by to help and made him forget?

"Cole came and dropped it off for you, but you didn't even notice. Poor kid looked heartbroken, and after he was actually _trying_ to be remembered," Varric teased, but the reassurance was there. _Don't worry, you still remember, even if you are oblivious_.

"How rude of me," Lavellan relaxed a bit. Cole _had_ promised, after all. "I suppose I got rather lost in my own head."

"Happens to the best of us," Dorian winked while stealing a cream covered strawberry. "And the worst of us."

"For shame, Sparkler," Varric admonished, while also taking a strawberry. "Stealing from the Inquisitor? They'll be screaming for your head."

"I'll be forced to pass judgment," Lavellan nodded solemnly, scooting the plate of cake further away from his two companions. 

"Oh? What would my punishment be, Lord Inquisitor," Dorian smirked, leaning forward.

"Hm," Lavellan mulled over his thoughts on Dorian with a bite of fluffy cake. He had a _lot_ of thoughts on Dorian. "A few things certainly come to mind but for Varric's sake I'll settle on dueling for my honor. Wicked Grace it is."

Dorian mock pouted as Varric chuckled, already slipping out a pack of cards, "I sure feel bad for you, Sparkler."

Several rounds of Wicked Grace later (in which Dorian tried and failed to win his dignity back), Lavellan had three of Dorian's rings, half his coin (he couldn't bear to take _all_ of what the man had), a much smaller bag of coin from Varric (the dwarf was starting to learn his tells), and a wicked buzz from all the wine. It was nearing midnight, and his room was rather cold. The hearth was low, but a number of candles were lit, illuminating the room with help from the moonlight reflecting off the snowy mountains. A large copper tub had been placed near the fire, a flickering rune emblazoned on the side, tinkling as it kept the water warm as the scent of Prophet's Laurel and sandalwood filled the room.

Two notes sat on the drying towel folded up beside the tub. The first one, signed by Josephine, detailed the tub as a gift from an anonymous Orlesian noble. The second was from Vivienne, with an incredibly polite message about his stink wafting up to her balcony and how she wished him a relaxing bath in the tub she gifted him. 

Lavellan laughed, reread the two notes, and laughed a bit more. A tear escaped his eyes and he wiped at it absently, unsure if it came from the laughter, the thoughtfulness of everyone today, or relief as the last dregs of tension melted away. 

If only for the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah. Friends~


	21. Research

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally moving towards plot. Its only been forever

A wet splat had Dorian looking up from his book with a frown. Noises were not unheard of in the rotunda; between the rookery above and the pretentious humming and painting below, Dorian's shared space was full of noise. However,  _ wet _ noises were a deeply concerning matter.

He was up in an instant, a minor restoration spell between his fingers, only to find Lavellan, standing near the top of the rotunda stairs, arms full of gore and face twisted in exasperation. He was glowering down at a disgustingly grey and still beating heart like it had personally offended him by falling out of his arms and onto the floor. Dorian stooped and picked up the organ between as few digits as he could, shuddering in revulsion at the squishy texture, before gently adding it back to the mass of… bits in Lavellan's arms.

"Would you… like me to get any of that for you?" Dorian hoped the answer was a 'no, thank you,' followed up by a dashing smile.

He got one of the two. "It's alright. Thank you for picking that up for me," Lavellan sighed, still glaring down at the viscera and junk in his arms.

"Of course," Dorian faltered. "Trouble in paradise?"

Lavellan snorted, but began walking the short distance to the research station. "You could say that." Dorian followed behind, wiping his hand on a kerchief he then immediately burned away into nothing. "Things have been… chaotic."

From what he'd heard, that was a bit of an understatement. Between the bewildered nobles flocking to look at the Inquisition like it was a slow motion circus, the constant stream of devout pilgrims, the infinite and always entertaining letters of marriage alliances Josephine was complaining of having to burn before Cullen or Lavellan received them, Cole, as well as everything involving Corypheus- 

"So I've heard." Lavellan unceremoniously dumped his armful of horror onto Helisima's desk. She looked about as perturbed as a Tranquil could be. "Is there anything I can assist you with?"

Lavellan pried a sickly green rag taken from a Shade off his chest and added it to the pile. There would be no salvaging that tunic. "I need to go to Crestwood soon. You're welcome to join me if you aren't busy with other things."

Dorian recalled hearing something about the place, but he would never pass up the opportunity to be out and about with Lavellan again. "Of course."

The tension seemed to loosen its hold on Lavellan's shoulders with his relieved exhale, "thank you."

"Gracing you with my presence is the least I can do, Inquisitor," he assured with a wink.

Two days later, Dorian would remember what he had overheard the forward scouts saying about Crestwood. Perpetual rain and endless corpses, all while smelling strongly of fish no matter where you stood. Dorian joined Lavellan in glaring at the rift at the bottom of the lake while Cole hovered around the edges of the camp. Blackwall sneezed loudly and wetly from behind them.

"Someday, my dear Inquisitor, I'd like to go somewhere nice with you."

"What was wrong with the Hinterlands?"

"We were mauled by bears."

Lavellan hummed, "I suppose that does put a damper on things."

A dragon screeched and swooped overhead, flying off to some place hidden by the hazy mist.

Lavellan sighed and began trudging dutifully towards new Crestwood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always forget my research materials until my inventory fills up.


	22. Crestwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crestwood is a mess

Dorian began studying spirits just after he turned fifteen. He was intrigued by the idea of semi-sentient constructs of the Fade, something embodying an ideal to its fullest extent, of truly neutral things capable of wondrous uses. If you knew what to summon, they could be a powerful source of knowledge- or destruction.

And there was now a spirit breaking every known fact right here in front of him. 

Blackwall was recounting some tale and Cole was listening with enraptured attention, nodding along and whispering a question or comment every now and again. It was almost endearing. Cole looked every bit like a human, albeit a hauntingly gaunt human, but human nonetheless. He hadn't quite gotten the mannerisms and speech figured out yet, but he seemed a quick study. It was utterly fascinating- an unbound spirit, capable of thought and feeling, uninterested in possession, and just here to help. His curiosity  _ burned _ .

"Where in Thedas did you find such an oddity," Dorian asked Lavellan absently, eyes still locked on the spirit of Compassion before him.

"He came to my front gate, during the attack on Haven," he replied. Frowning he added, "Varric says everything that happens to me is weird. I think he's onto something."

"I'm inclined to agree," Dorian chuckled. "He complains about nobody believing a word of his  _ Tale of the Champion _ . They'll have an even more difficult time believing anything he writes about you."

"I have a hard enough time believing anything that happens to me-" he was cut off by Blackwall's shout of "Wardens!"

After that, things became a busy haze of activity as they tried to outrun the Warden search party. Talking to the mayor, running into more desperate peasants, fighting too many corpses, Lavellan obliterating a poor door into a sad little pile of wood, taking a keep via murder, running across a very slippery dam, and then interrupting a poor couple having a lovely fondle in an abandoned tavern... That last one took Dorian by surprise- though it really shouldn't have. Very little that happened to Lavellan made much sense, so he should have expected something like it.

Cole innocently asked Blackwall to explain the situation, who was blushing right through his beard, what the two were up to while Lavellan gave them directions to the keep. "There's an unused storage room full of crates you can use, just mind the splinters and lock the door." He had always thought of religious symbols as being rather prudish, but L avellan must have missed the memo.

He wandered around the empty tavern to help push down the waves of adoration he was suddenly feeling.

"Uh oh, seems the mayor may have some explaining to do," Dorian muttered upon finding the sluice gate levers.

The dam controls were a tad rusty but were in otherwise perfect shape, despite the many insistent claims otherwise from the mayor of Crestwood. In fact, there wasn't a single sign of darkspawn related damage anywhere. The controls actually looked restored, and recently.

Lavellan looked grim as he nodded, "I'm not liking what this means. One thing at a time though."

"We'll have to come back, Inquisitor. That gear is meant for livestock to pull," Blackwall advised.

Thunder cracked from outside and Dorian shivered at the thought of having to leave just to come right back. Lavellan shook his head. "Let me give it a shot. I'd like to not have to come back here unless absolutely necessary."

Blackwall shrugged and let the elf place his newly acquired greathammer on a wobbly table, strip off his gauntlets and pauldrons, and then pull off his heavy boots. The muscles in his arms flexed as he gripped the heavy poles of the gear, and his feet dug into the straw covered stone underneath him. He grunted as he pushed, and the gear squealed in protest before shuddering and twisting under the strain of Lavellan's might. Cole watched from the windows as the sluice gates began to open in earnest, water spraying and spilling in great torrents, and Blackwall muttered an awed little blaspheme. Dorian simply stared at Lavellan.

He'd never get used to seeing such feats of strength from someone so lithe, and he never wanted to. At least not until it had been used against him in every way and against every surface possible. Belatedly, he wondered if he should be helping.

Blackwall cleared his throat and nodded deferentially, "I apologize for doubting you."

Lavellan was panting for breath, "it's okay. I doubted me a little back there too." He smirked over at Dorian, who had not stopped staring, "something on your mind?"

"Nothing at all," Dorian lied.

Lavellan shot him a knowing look as he got dressed before leading them back towards the claimed keep. Inquisition soldiers and scouts were already setting up tents and various workstations, hanging banners, and tossing bandit corpses onto carts. There was a stew cooking and Dorian gave it a hearty sniff, hoping they'd actually get to sit down and finish the day.

Given the the concerned conversation an Inquisition scout was having with Lavellan, it seemed unlikely.

"Fisher went missing in the wellspring cavern below the keep while checking the quality," an elf- Charter, he believed- explained. "He's been gone an hour and a half now, but we don't have the manpower to go search for him."

"I'll look into it."

This was not the first cave he'd dutifully followed the Inquisitor into and he doubted it would be the last. It was by far the nicest one yet, with a little stalagmite window letting in the waning sunlight, and pooling clear waters that glittered in the torchlight. It stopped being nice when chittering and scuttling began to echo off the walls. Lavellan's posture changed in an instant.

It was as if all the elf's muscles  _ seized _ , and he stood frozen even as a giant spider and several slightly smaller baby spiders began lowering themselves from the cave ceiling, surrounding him and only getting closer. He didn't move until Dorian's barrier spread across his skin and then it was with a gasp and a sudden swing that sliced off two of eight huge and hairy legs. Lavellan hacked away with a silent fervor while Blackwall watched his back. Cole had disappeared and Dorian felt a bit useless. Electricity wasn't an option thanks to all the lovely water, ice and fire would likely hit his companions, and his more panic inducing spells didn't exactly do much to spiders. Which left him focusing on barriers and carefully zapping and immolating anything that got too close.

By the end of it, Cole was helping a very thankful Fisher to the ladder, Blackwall was wiping spider goop off his axe only to smear it elsewhere, Lavellan hadn't moved and was breathing hard facing the cavern wall, and Dorian was back to watching Lavellan. This time out of concern and not infatuation.

"Lavellan?"

He didn't even twitch.

"Skittering, scratching, too many legs too many eyes- have to protect her, she's important but I don't know why. There's too many and it  _ hurts _ -"

"Cole." Lavellan had jolted, cutting off the spirit's ramblings, voice hard and echoing through the cave.

"Sorry, it's very loud," he whispered.

"Are you alright," Blackwall questioned quietly.

"I-" Lavellan breathed deeply, "I just really hate spiders."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love how the dam controls are like massive and clearly meant for a few people to turn or at least a smaller livestock to pull but nah. Also your companions are always more than happy to just watch you do all the work.


	23. Secrets in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God can't believe I've been sitting on this chapter oops
> 
> Anyway Lavellan

They were back at the lakeside camp a little after midnight, their feet aching and all feeling a little uneasy. The mayor of Crestwood had fled, leaving a note of confession in his quarters, and Lavellan was quick to send word to Cullen and Leliana for his arrest. Meanwhile, the lake had been reduced to half its size, and the forgotten shell of old Crestwood lay exposed in the moonlight. The stench was unbearable.

It was too late at night to go traipsing through it in search of the flooded cave system, a small mercy as far as he was concerned. Dorian was so exhausted he didn't register himself being tugged into a tent until he was already through the flap.

"Inquisitor, how bold," although the flirting fell flat after yawning heartily halfway through. Hopefully nobody saw him and the Inquisitor- or at least thought much of it.

"You and Blackwall have been at each other's throats all day. No way are you two sharing a tent next to me," Lavellan leveled a pointed look his way while unbuckling his armor.

"How thoughtful of you, but I could always share with Cole. He can delve into my mind and tell me all my darkest secrets. It would be very therapeutic, I'm sure." The thought of sharing a tent with Lavellan again made his stomach do a warm flippy thing in blatant disregard to his paranoia.

Lavellan shuddered, "I'm sure it would be. I've asked him to respect people's privacy, but he has a strange definition of the word. He doesn't need to sleep though, so he can be on watch all night."

"A whole night of possibly uninterrupted sleep," Dorian gasped, hanging his outer robes and cloak up to dry. "How _lavish_."

"And all it costs is a bit of your dignity every few hours."

Dorian chuckled, "what a price to pay." Lavellan shot him a tired but happy smile, belatedly he realized it was the first he'd seen all day. 

It wasn't until they were both in their respective bedrolls that Lavellan spoke again. "You don't seem to like Wardens. Or is it just Blackwall?"

"Now, now, Inquisitor. I barely know the man, albeit not for lack of trying," Dorian sniffed. "Although, he could certainly do with a bath. There was foliage in his beard."

"You didn't answer my question about Wardens," Lavellan huffed.

"How about a deal," Dorian offered, turning toward Lavellan. The elf was hard for Dorian to deny, but maybe this way he could avoid such a pesky position. "I answer your question if you answer one of mine." And if the elf did happen to accept, well, a question that had been nagging at the back of his mind for a few hours would finally get answered.

Lavellan's eyes narrowed, but he turned to lay on his side as well, facing Dorian fully. "I suppose that is fair enough. So why do you dislike Wardens?"

He had really hoped the Inquisitor would not live up to his title, just this once. "Did you know becoming a Grey Warden can stop the taint?" Lavellan's eyes widened but Dorian continued "not permanently of course. After you do their little ritual, and you manage to survive, it simply slows it down. Regardless, it's a way for those with the blight to have a chance, however small or short." 

"This is about Felix."

"We sent letters, he and I. To every Warden we could find an address for. We even sent one to Weisshaupt. Alexius didn't know- he wouldn't approve. An Altus, a magister's son, did not become a Warden. But Felix simply wanted to be able to do some good before the end, instead of wasting away."

"He was an honorable and thoughtful man."

"Nobody ever responded. Sad, they spend so much time haunting prisons offering recruitment to the desperate and deplorable that they would ignore a truly worthy man offering himself."

Lavellan was quiet for so long Dorian thought he'd fallen asleep. "I wonder if what's going on with the Wardens may have interfered," he said at last. Dorian scoffed and the elf shrugged, "just a thought. One we'll likely not know the answer to."

"Fair enough." Dorian paused. "Have I really come off as that bitter?"

"More snark than bitter. It does seem as though you disapprove of them," Lavellan replied honestly. "Though I suppose I know why now. Just try not demonize them too horribly much for being imperfect."

"Of course not. They may not be paragons of morality, unlike yourself, but I can at least appreciate their work." Dorian hummed, "I still think Blackwall is in desperate need of a bath."

Lavellan snorted, "we _all_ need baths, Dorian." He frowned, "I'm hardly a moral paragon." Dorian flopped an arm into the scant space between them, patting his hand against Lavellan's lump of blankets, shushing the elf. "Dorian, you've watched me murder a lot of people."

"I've _helped_ you murder a lot of people, and former people, and animals-" which reminded him, "I get to ask you a question now."

"I did agree to that, yes. Even though you already ask me a lot of questions," Lavellan grumbled.

"I simply needed to know what you bought all of that nugskin for. You never did tell me."

"It's incredibly soft and good for inner armor, but I feel bad for killing them so I have to find it elsewhere," Lavellan muttered, looking away. "They squeak when they die, Dorian. It's awful."

"Maker, where _did_ they find you," he had to cover his face.

"Was that your question?"

"No! Kaffas," Dorian turned back to face Lavellan who was all but pouting at him. "I wanted to ask about what Cole said to you, in the caves below Caer Bronach." He wished he hadn't asked the moment the words left his mouth, the entirety of Lavellan's body freezing solid and face turning to stone. "I didn't- if you don't wish to speak of it, I understand. It's simply… it felt deeper than a dislike of spiders-" _and I worried_.

Lavellan was staring at him, eyes unreadable and face blank, but whatever mask he was wearing was starting to crack around the edges as the tension ebbed from his shoulders and jaw. Wordlessly the elf turned on his side, facing the wall of the tent, and curled in on himself ever so subtly. Dorian tried not to whimper as he felt his heart break.

"I would tell you the truth," Lavellan whispered, "but I-" he paused for a long moment. "You would not look at me the same way. I do not want to lose your respect."

Dorian swallowed- this had nothing to do with the spiders. Gently, he reached out and brushed a hand against Lavellan's back, swallowing down his nervousness. He kept getting closer to the sun, even though he knew the consequences all too well, and yet he couldn't bear to stop. This was beyond simply encouraging Lavellan during a rather dark situation or desperately trying to bring him back from near death. Those were born of a duty to see the Inquisitor through to the next thing, _this_ however, was personal. Very personal. He'd already broken a few unspoken rules- touches that were blasphemous in the South and forbidden in the North, open and honest admissions that would cost him The Game, as well as the usual attraction to someone he Could Not Have. What was one more thing at a time like this? 

Nobody else would know.

"Lavellan, I don't think there's anything that could make me lose respect for you. If it hurts you to say-"

"I do want to say it," Lavellan's voice was small, deep and tired. "It's a secret, bubbling in me. I fear what would happen if it is exposed, but it hurts to keep inside. I want..."

"It's like living a lie," Dorian murmured.

"Yes."

Lavellan turned back to face him, taking the hand Dorian had outstretched, eyes closed and face twisted with pain and grief. He fought the urge to take his hand back- this was more intimate than the time they were half-naked in the same bedroll but... Comfort was hardly his area of expertise, but he'd make an attempt for the Inquisitor's- for _Lavellan's_ sake.

"The truth is- I don't know who I am."

That was- not what he expected to hear. He wasn't even sure what the elf _meant_.

"I lost my memories at the Conclave. All I have left are impressions, vague snippets of things. When I was in the Fade," Lavellan's voice cracked and he grimaced, licking his lips and trying again. "I remember more of the Fade, but it's not… much. Nor pleasant. There were _things_ , spider-like creatures. They almost tore me to shreds. I only escaped because of the woman who was there behind me."

Dorian stared, letting the puzzle pieces click together in his head. Of course Lavellan hadn't gotten out of the Conclave _or_ the Fade unscathed. He wasn't sure how he felt about being right this time.

"I don't even know my first name- Creators, I didn't even know who my vallaslin was dedicated to. I couldn't remember the shape."

Dorian frowned, voice quiet, "amnesia is hardly a reason to lose respect for someone, Lavellan."

"Perhaps not, but I- I can't attest to who I was before this. Was I a kind person? Someone people could look up to?" Lavellan whispered, hiding his face with one hand and squeezing Dorian's with the other. "I don't know. What if I was a monster?"

"And that's why you try so hard."

"I don't know who the real me is or why I would have been at the Conclave. I'm no diplomat, mage, or Templar- I'm not even a _human._ My Keeper didn't clarify and- I haven't asked, but what if I was there to do something terrible?"

Dorian hummed, "perhaps I'm biased, but it's hard to imagine you being anything other than what you are now." Lavellan shrugged despondently, and so he gamely pressed on, "in fact, doing good seems to come effortlessly to you." The elf frowned but removed his hand from his face, his eyes were watery, but instead of replying he simply scowled. "I'm serious you know. You don't think maybe it might be your natural state?"

Lavellan looked away, unconvinced, "that sounds… wishful."

"Possibly." Dorian scooted a bit closer in his bedroll as Lavellan gently slipped his hand away and rolled onto his back. "Let me ask you another question then." 

"And you always tease me for my questions," Lavellan joked weakly.

"Of course I do. You're insatiable, but as am I." Lavellan huffed an almost laugh, but didn't look away from the ceiling of the tent. Dorian rolled onto his back as well, if only to avoid staring at the elf. "Are you happy with who you are now?"

He didn't receive an answer, not for a long while. The silence- what little there was between the sounds of the wind rippling waves across the lake and the distant nighttime calls of the birds- was a pensive one at least. It was enough of a pause that it let the exhaustion creep over his curiosity like ivy, but he knew Lavellan would mull it over, as he did everything that was presented to him, he needed only hang on long enough for the answer.

Eventually he heard Lavellan's tired but honest reply, "I think I am rather happy with the me I am now."

Dorian closed his eyes and smiled, _good_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah!


	24. Letters from Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally heading back home from my trip

Being back in Skyhold was a blessing in every sense of the word. Civilization, at long last. No undead corpses or stinking lakes, no demon infested caves, and most importantly- the prospect of a bath. Over the course of the last five days he had seen the Inquisitor take orders from a spirit of Command, lift not one but _three_ bottles of truly foul alcoholic mixes from the former bottom of a lake, nearly die in an attempt to scale a cliffside for a wedge of cheese, and murder a very territorial and poisonous wyvern. He had made the mistake of letting Cole ask him questions- which led to entirely too many cryptic conversations about his fashion and a few frankly baffling ones regarding his connection to the Fade. 

He was exhausted, sore, and he was quite sure he'd never remove the fish stink from his skin, but Maker if he wasn't going to try.

It was dark when they arrived through the gates, the night patrols greeting them tiredly and the usual bustle of the courtyard gone. The merchants had all packed up for the day, the sounds of the Tavern a fever pitch of drunken revelry, and only the servants were out and about. The perfect time for a nice moment to himself. Dorian made a beeline for his modest quarters as soon as he dismounted, leaving Cole to disappear, Blackwall to go back to the stables and brood, and Lavellan to chat with Cullen at the gates.

He was fortunate there was what could almost pass as a bathhouse in one of the lower buildings in the hold. It was close to the cells and the lower vaults, but divided by plenty of stone, both cut and natural. Some of the chilly waters of the waterfall underneath Skyhold had been diverted into the room, offering the most pristine bathwater he'd ever seen. Unfortunately, it was still frigid despite the multiple heating runes inlaid into the basins and ducts. For Dorian, the chill was a small price to pay for hygiene.

It was by far one of the better additions to the ever expanding restoration and modernization of Skyhold, in his not so humble opinion.

The baths were mercifully empty, leaving him free to indulge as much as he wanted for as long as he wanted. At least for as long as the glyph of heat held out. Dorian settled back with a contented sigh after scrubbing himself raw. The amount of filth that had lifted from him was astounding.

The quiet dripping and sloshing of water echoed off the rather cavernous walls, not unlike the flooded caves below Crestwood. Those had been an experience; horror and wonder all wrapped into one. Honestly, that could describe the trip as a whole- horror at the tragedy of Crestwood, both current and past, horror at what happened to Lavellan, at the Conclave and in the Fade, horror each time Cole opened his mouth and Blackwall came within sniffing distance. Dorian shuddered, and not just from the cold. 

He could appreciate all the wonders too... at the sight of starlight reflecting off glowing waters and the majesty of dwarven ruins hidden away. Of simply listening to a spirit and convincing it to return to the Fade, all by doing something they were already on their way to do. The way Lavellan whispered his secret to him in the dead of night, open and trusting. He wondered who else was privy to that knowledge. He wondered where those memories he lost could go- and if they could be found again. 

Lavellan had said he was happy as he was now, and while obviously worried about who he might have been, he looked pleased in a way that couldn't be faked whenever he was helping people. Always so unbearably polite and kind, caring when he didn't need to… he made it all look as easy as breathing. Dorian couldn't understand the concern. Lavellan didn't need to worry about being a monster, not when he seemed utterly incapable of being one. Sure, he murdered plenty of people, and would murder many more, but in his defense those people were practically asking to be murdered. 

No, Dorian had seen plenty of monsters- ones that revelled in their wrongness and ones that hid it away like a foul surprise. Lavellan didn't fall into either category. So why dwell on a past that was unlikely to be?

"Hollow but filled by the people around him, you make him feel like he is-" Dorian shrieked at the sudden voice beside him "-why are you screaming?"

" _Festus bei umo canavarum!_ Cole!" Dorian spluttered, heart slamming in his chest and so very close to having iced over the room in his fear. "Do you _mind_?"

Cole cocked his head to the side, "not really, no."

Dorian swore again, palm covering his face as he internally lamented his life choices. "Why are you here?"

"I'm here for the water. Crystal clear, like the river that was home once. The fish in the barrel think there's too much salt."

Dorian felt his eye twitch, "of course."

"They are thirsty, Dorian."

He had no response. Cole managed to spirit away his bucket of water before he could make one anyway. Sighing bitterly, Dorian toweled himself dry, got dressed, and made his way back to his modest quarters and slunk under his pile of blankets with an irate huff.

He woke up sometime around midday with a sore back, a gnawing hunger, and some nameless thing that had him feeling- _off._ Not even for any particular reason, but it had him distracted as he made himself presentable for what little was left of the day. The feeling didn't ebb by the time he stepped into the throne room (still full of scaffolding and less so of rubble). There were more nobles out gossiping and standing in walkways than there had been a week or so ago, more tables and chairs, and even a few proper rugs scattered about. There was also Mother Giselle cornering the Inquisitor, no doubt while he had been on his way to the war room. She shot him a glance and frowned.

Dorian sent a wink her way, pilfered a sweet roll from Varric's table, and made his way up to his alcove. Of all those in the Inquisition with a voice, hers was the loudest when it came to her disapproval of him. Normally, he wouldn't care. People always had opinions, and plenty more about him, and it did no good to pay them any mind. 

Unfortunately, he was starting to care about opinions- specifically if they involved a certain elf.

He couldn't help but worry- if someday soon he'd cross some invisible line in the sand and that would be it. That someday Lavellan would see him and be disgusted, disappointed- that he'd realize that Dorian wasn't the man he thought he was after all. It used to be easy- he gave up trying to impress his teachers, the fellows of his Circle, his mother, his father, the others of his class. The opinions of people who didn't know him didn't bear the weight of those who did, but the ones who did know him ended up-

Well they wanted to change him into something he wasn't, which was evidence enough of how they thought of him.

He didn't want to have such doubts towards Lavellan as the man was hardly impressionable, but he did listen to anyone willing enough to talk to him. He took everyone's opinions into account, regardless of his belief, and contemplated everything with an unnerving thoughtfulness. More so than that, he was painfully accommodating, more than he had any right to be. Dorian was loathe to say _people pleaser_ , but Lavellan _was_ an unbearably understanding man who disliked internal conflicts and attracting attention.

If someone's arguments were sound enough…

"Dorian," Lavellan's voice cut through his thoughts, "Varric told me to tell you to keep your thieving hands to yourself."

"Did he really send the Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, to tell me to not touch his delicious, sticky little buns," Dorian turned with a laugh, only slightly forced, as well as a wink. Lavellan's chuckle made it easier. 

"He did. He also said Bianca will get jealous if you aren't careful. Apparently I'm an errand boy today," the elf replied with a roll of his eyes. Dorian wanted to correct him, tell him that _technically, he was treated as an errand boy_ everyday.

"A very strapping errand boy, if I say so myself." Dorian wanted to slap himself- flirty banter was _not_ the way to keep his place here in the Inquisition, no matter how it heated up Lavellan's cheeks. "You could be sitting on that spiky throne of yours eating peeled grapes and sipping the finest vintages."

"I already sit on that throne and drink fine vintages," Lavellan murmured glancing away. Maker, just the casual mention of it had the elf uncomfortable. He was far, _far_ too noble.

"I'm not talking about the ones you find in the wilderness in dubious locales. Proper vintages from proper boxes." Irritation flared impotently in his gut, and caused him to ramble a bit. "Instead, you run around, going out of your way to help every person who so much as looks at you." Lavellan was regarding him curiously, no doubt ready to ask if anything was wrong, if he needed help too. Maybe he did, but he refused to be another person stealing away the Inquisitor, asking him for this or that, _using_ him for anything, swaying him with carefully crafted words. The worst part is that he knew Lavellan would do whatever he asked without hesitation, that he cared enough for Dorian's opinions that he'd keep them close at hand, even if they were terrible. "I can't help but wonder-" if someone asked you to send me away, would you?

"Dorian." Lavellan stepped into his alcove, and that was certainly unusual. The mage stepped back without thinking. "You wonder if I'm being taken advantage of?"

Well, _yes_ , he supposed. It was certainly a better, although not as accurate, phrase to use. Dorian arched an eyebrow and crossed his arms as if to say ' _well, are you?'_

Lavellan took another step into his alcove, and suddenly the space was entirely too small. Dorian's eyes flickered around the rotunda to see if anyone was watching, but this floor was blessedly devoid of people. "I'm well aware of what people ask of me." He took another step and this time Dorian didn't move backwards. "Sometimes they ask too much or for something I cannot or will not do." The sound of paper crinkling had Dorian noticing what was in Lavellan's hands. "Please don't mistake my kindness for naivete."

Feeling rather chastised, Dorian looked away, "apologies, Inquisitor."

Lavellan shook his head, smiled soft and warm, and just like that everything was right in the world again. "There's nothing to apologize for. If anything it's a comfort to have you concerned for me." 

Dorian muttered a quiet, "of course." How could he _not_ be concerned for Lavellan? The man rarely used stairs and had a bad habit of sampling every strange cheese that crossed their path.

Lavellan seemed to remember something because his smile was suddenly replaced by a frown. "I came up here for another reason. Mother Giselle gave me a letter."

"Oh? Is it a naughty letter?" Likely not but he'd love a good distraction right about now.

"It's from your father."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun duuuuun


	25. Last Resort of Good Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I seriously did the Last Resort for Good Men questline a half dozen times for all the dialogue.

Dorian's anger had plateaued somewhere outside the Frostbacks, tumbled down into a valley of resigned bitterness in the outskirts of the Hinterlands, and had now reached a buzzing trepidation as the gates of Redcliffe loomed before him. " _I know my son_ ", he had been furious at the line, but now all he had was a hollow ache in his heart and anxious nausea in his gut. Oh, yes, Halward Pavus knew his son- albeit only a little bit- but enough to want to change everything about him. 

Lost in his head as he was, he missed out on the many worried glances Varric and Lavellan were sending his way. 

Skyhold was at least closer to the Hinterlands, which meant he was only stuck with his spiraling thoughts for about three days. Three days of thinking about what to say to this family retainer but not deciding on anything and desperately hoping it was a Venatori plot all along. He'd run out of wine after the first day and his fingers twitched for the smooth neck of a bottle. His skin felt too tight and it left him feeling snappish and ready to break. Varric gave him a wide berth after too many failed attempts to lighten the mood, Cassandra seemed unfazed by his silence and pacing and went about her business, and Lavellan was...

He hadn't asked Lavellan to come with him, he just _did_ , and Dorian wanted to send him back, hide away from him, curl up in shame, tell him everything, kiss him, push him away. Instead, Dorian did none of those things. He let Lavellan lead them to Redcliffe, let him slip the only bottle of alcohol he had with him from his fingers, let him drink the remaining half of it and toss the bottle aside without a word. Lavellan had been quiet, letting him stew in his mixed emotions. 

For better or for worse.

He had other things to do. Dorian was sure of it. When he asked, Lavellan told him it would be another two weeks until Hawke could get them information and at least a week and a half until they could even move towards the Western Approach. They had time and " _this is important_ ". 

The gate passed overhead and he shuddered in the saddle.

He had never actually been inside the Gull and Lantern. He had camped just outside Redcliffe, only venturing in as far as the old windmill until it was time to meet with the Herald so many months ago. It felt longer, and the sight of the Chantry up on the hill elicited a strange almost-nostalgia he'd have to ruminate over whenever he wasn't about to walk into a trap.

Cassandra and Varric stayed behind, standing outside the tavern and being oddly companionable for once. Their silence would have unnerved him any other day. Lavellan followed him inside and after the initial wash of shame at having his family business being aired in front of the man he respected most, he was actually rather grateful for his company. He knew he needn't worry about judgment or gossip from the elf, but he worried anyway. He would find out the dirtier details eventually so he might as well get it over with. 

The inevitability wasn't much of a comfort.

"Uh oh, nobody's here," Dorian muttered as they stepped into the empty tavern. "This doesn't bode well." He felt rather thankful and supposed the retainer may have-

"Dorian."

_Father_ , the voice was unmistakable and shook him to his core. The last time he heard the man's voice was during his escape, a shouted " _you are no son of mine_ " in the dead of night between splattering drops of blood. This was not anything he expected, and it sent a lick of fury up his spine and spitting out of his mouth. Halward Pavus was as unflappable as ever, even after Lavellan pushed to get him to truly talk, even after he admitted "I prefer the company of men. My father disapproves."

There was a painful pause as Lavellan's face scrunched in confusion, "what?" It would have been cute had Dorian not been feeling exposed and raw and _furious_.

"Did I stutter? Men, and the company thereof. As in sex. Surely you've heard of it or should I draw you a diagram?"

Lavellan glanced away, his cheeks red, "I've… more than heard of it, actually."

Dorian huffed, "the Herald of Andraste? No! I'm shocked and scandalized. Though you haven't exactly been subtle," now that he was thinking about it a little. Certainly less subtle than what Dorian was used to that's for sure. And he considered himself so _open_ about it.

"I should have known that's what this was about," his father sighed, barely concealing a grimace.

Dorian saw red, "no. No, you do _not_ get to make those assumptions about the Inquisitor-" _and I._

"I'm sorry, but," Lavellan interrupted, scrubbing a gauntleted hand through his hair irately, "all this is about who Dorian sleeps with?"

Halward glanced away and Dorian chuckled darkly, "oh no. This is about how every child is molded to be the perfect mage, perfect heir, perfect everything. Forced to live up to the impossible standard set for them. And what happens whenever they can't? Whenever there's a flaw, an aberration large or small? What do we do? We keep it hidden, shamed. And tell me father, what happened when I refused to play along?" The floodgates opened and he stepped closer and closer to his father, who might as well be a statue acting as if this were nothing but a mild inconvenience. Maybe that's really all it was to him.

"Dorian-"

"You told me blood magic was the resort of the weak mind. And when I refused to be your perfect little heir you- you" Dorian hated how his voice broke- "tried to _change_ me."

"I only wanted what was best for you-"

Dorian stormed over to face his father, "you wanted the best for _you_ ," he hissed. "For your _fucking_ legacy! Anything for that." Even his only son. Dorian made for the door.

Lavellan was at his side, fingers barely brushing his elbow, whispering "you don't have to leave it like this… but I'll understand..." He had never seen the Inquisitor's eyes so cold, leveled squarely on Pavus senior. _Murderous_ , and practically bristling. But he wasn't pushing him one way or the other, giving him the final say.

He didn't have to leave it like this.

Dorian exhaled, steeled himself, and turned. "Tell me why you came."

"If I knew I would drive you to the Inquisition-"

"You _didn't_ ," his sigh tore his lungs. "I joined because it was the right thing to do. Once… I had a father who would have known that." Dorian turned to leave, disappointment roiling in his gut.

He only made it two steps before his father's soft voice stopped him, "once. I had a son who trusted me. A trust I betrayed."

Hope was a stupid spark flaring in his heart.

Lavellan nodded to him, an unspoken ' _go on'_ , and slunk to sit by the door- watchful but still offering privacy. Shame and disappointment whirled in his gut, but he appreciated Lavellan's presence as he turned and made his way to the bar. He could listen, it didn't have to mean anything.

He and Lavellan didn't talk again that night. The elf dropped by his corner of the campfire to give him a bottle of wine pilfered from the Redcliffe bar (after he took a long swig) and to squeeze his shoulder, but otherwise left him to his thoughts. He had a great many thoughts. The wine didn't help. Perhaps he just needed more.

Varric sat across from him, humming a low tune while polishing the mess that was Bianca, Cassandra off to the side of him reading a book with an obviously fake cover. It almost felt… normal, although he found himself wishing for some friendly squabbling. Regardless it made the tension bleed ever so slightly from his shoulders as night fell over their camp.

He didn't see Lavellan again until morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't decide what dialogue options I liked best so I just sorta wung it. Also sorry for all the direct lines


	26. Blood of the Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well friends, it's finally happened.
> 
> I'm running out of already written chapters so it's time to slow this train down. Instead of updating every 2-3 days, I think I'm gonna try posting on Saturdays. 
> 
> No promises tho, I have hella commitment issues

Dorian was back in his little alcove in the library, staring despondently out the window. They'd been back in Skyhold for all of a few hours but he still felt ready to bolt. Instead, he'd dropped his travel pack in his quarters and gone to stand around in his spot and give off the illusion of both normalcy and productivity. He imagined there were maybe only two people in the entire rotunda who were fooled.

He hadn't seen Lavellan since they'd arrived at the castle. 

That in itself didn't mean anything. The Inquisitor was a busy man; he had a masquerade ball to prepare for, Wardens to spy on, an Inquisition to maintain, and an endless list of other pressing things to do. He'd been gone for five days, all sorts of things had likely been piling up in his absence.

No, what did mean something was that Lavellan hadn't spoken to him since leaving the Gull and Lantern. When he had seen him the first morning after the meeting, the elf had looked haggard, like he had been running around the Hinterlands all night long instead of sleeping. There was an underlying anger to him though, in how he gripped the reins of his horse and in the set of his shoulders. More so than that, the _silence_. Lavellan didn't chat much on the road unless prompted, but he was at least doing _something_. Humming, doting on his steed, laughing, looking at Dorian and smiling. 

He had simply stared ahead, leading them back to Skyhold with an unnerving grimness.

He wasn't certain what this meant, but it was easy enough to come to a few conclusions. All he could hope for was a chance to apologize before he was sent away.

Soft footsteps from behind had him supposing he'd get his chance. He didn't need to look behind him to know it was Lavellan standing just outside his alcove. 

"He says we're the same," Dorian started. "Too much pride." He couldn't face Lavellan. "Once, I would have been overjoyed to hear him say that. Now," his voice fell into a whisper, "I'm not so certain." 

"He tried to change you," Lavellan's voice was hard, sadness with an edge of thinly bridled fury. It wasn't a question. He certainly owed Lavellan an explanation regardless.

"Out of desperation. I wouldn't marry the girl, play the game, be the perfect little heir. Selfish, I suppose, not to want to live my life screaming on the inside." Perhaps it was. Everyone else was living their own lies, so why couldn't he? "He was going to use blood magic. I found out, and I left." Like it had been as easy as that.

"Would it have even worked?" Lavellan's voice was cold, barely over a whisper.

"Perhaps. It also may have turned me into a vegetable. If it _had_ worked… I don't think I would have liked that Dorian." There was a moment where he thought he heard Lavellan inhale sharply- a small pained little noise and then quiet. Dorian continued staring out the fogged window.

"Are you alright?"

That was certainly an unexpected question. "No, not really." It was enough to force him to finally turn and face Lavellan, although he couldn't bear to meet his eyes. He stared down at the elf's clenched fist instead, the crackling green peeking through his flesh. "Thank you for bringing me. It's… not what I expected but… I don't know if I can forgive him. Maker knows what you must think of me now after that whole display."

"I don't think any less of you… more if possible. It isn't easy to forge your own path, but you were brave and did it anyway." Lavellan took a step forward into his alcove. "It's admirable." Dorian glanced up and saw Lavellan's face and his chest suddenly felt tight. The way he was being looked at… 

"The things you say," Dorian breathed, taking a single step to meet the elf.

"I mean it," Lavellan's tone brokered no arguments, not like Dorian could ever refute him, especially not after it was followed up by such a blinding smile.

"Living a lie… it festers inside you like a poison. You have to fight for what's in your heart." The words he had almost said to Lavellan and the mantra he lived by, now out in the open, declared into the scant distance between them.

"As I said," Lavellan muttered, hands reaching up to cup Dorian's jaw. The touch set his skin alight, had tears prickling his eyes. " _Admirable_."

Dorian shuddered and felt a ragged noise slip from his chest as he buckled into Lavellan's embrace. He wrapped his arms around the elf's body, gripping his back like a dying man as he felt himself break without a sound. 

"I wanted to kill your father," Lavellan murmured, "to want to change you. I couldn't- the thought of it was so unspeakable." The elf wrapped his arms loosely around Dorian's waist but his hands rubbed gentle and comforting circles against the small of his back. Had he ever been touched like this before? Held in someone's arms and comforted? Maybe when he was too young to remember. "If the ritual had worked- I wouldn't have liked that Dorian either. I like the Dorian who is true to himself."

It was too much and Dorian moved without thinking. One hand cupped Lavellan's cheek, thumb brushing the deep scar and the other held his elbow, but his lips found Lavellan's in a press both desperate and soft. The elf didn't move but Dorian realized his mistake immediately. He jolted back to move away only to freeze as Lavellan grasped his waist and held him closer.

"I- forgive me, Inquisitor, that was-"

"Dorian," Lavellan whispered, leveling him with a truly unimpressed look, before leaning in and capturing the mage's lips. There was a question behind it, an unspoken ' _I've been waiting for this, haven't you_?' 

Dorian had. He couldn't bear to do much more than briefly entertain the thought of Lavellan wanting him, but if he was serious- if he really could want him to some capacity… Dorian answered with a tilt of his head, slotting together their lips and pressing his answer, reveling in the sigh it earned him and ignoring the uneasy paranoia that endlessly dogged his heels.

The rotunda still felt too quiet, despite the chatter of birds and distant conversation around them. He felt eyes upon them, even though they were tucked away mostly out of sight. That would all be something for future Dorian to sort out, preferably much later after some heavy drinking and when he had a proper handle on himself. When he wasn't clinging to the man he respected more than anyone, who looked at him with adoration and admiration, who had seen the darkest parts of him and said he was brave. He could drown in this sort of gentleness. The thought was both terrifying and alluring. 

Lavellan was the first to pull away, hands back on either side of Dorian's face, cheeks pink and lips pinker. He was smiling though, blue eyes soft and clear like an icemelt river, and his thumbs stroked and smoothed rough lines across his cheekbones. 

Dorian leant forwards to follow him, but pulled back, feeling slightly embarrassed but mostly just incredibly vulnerable. Lavellan let him go easily, but didn't move away. "I see you like to play with fire, Inquisitor," he offered in feeble warning. 

Lavellan chuckled, slipping his marked hand into Dorian's and lifting it to his lips. Dorian's breath stuttered in his chest as the elf pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles, the flaring Anchor tingling under his fingertips. "Your fire won't hurt me."

"We'll see," Dorian managed past the lump in his throat. Recovering as quick as he could, he tried for his usual flippancy, "I do believe it is past time to drink myself into a stupor. It's been that sort of week." Lavellan rolled his eyes but the smile never left his lips. "Join me, if you have a mind."

"I'd love to, if only to see if the rumors of you drinking Fereldan ale are true, but I'm afraid I have a war table meeting soon." Lavellan released his hand with one last squeeze. "We'll talk later, Dorian."

_Ah, the dreaded later_. "Of course."

Later for Dorian was at least spent in the Herald's Rest, drinking down anything Cabot set in front of him, and trying to decide if the warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest was from the disgusting ale or from Lavellan. He had been joined by Sera and Iron Bull at various points, but Sera was now artfully draped under several bar stools and Bull had been stolen away by his Chargers. What they were celebrating now he had no idea. He didn't have much an idea of anything, his mind having long since slipped into that fuzzy blankness of inebriation.

Which is why when a glowing green hand came and slipped the tankard from his limp fingers he chalked it up to his imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck yeah!


	27. Chessboards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian plays chess

Dorian spent the next day in his quarters nursing the worst hangover he'd felt in years. He slunk down to the baths sometime around noon, ate in the afternoon, but couldn't manage to bring himself to his library alcove.

He remembered his kiss with Lavellan with a startling clarity, despite the blank of the rest of the night. It gave him a roiling mix of shame, guilt, fear, and something distinctly warm and featherlight he hadn't gotten from any previous liaisons that left him aching. Whatever he felt towards Lavellan was uncharted territory, and he certainly felt _something_. 

It was exhilarating. 

It was also terrifying. 

He didn't know what to do when it came to feelings, so he did what he usually did when faced with such a problem and avoided it and the source. It was a fine plan, Lavellan was busy finishing some darkspawn related things up on the Storm Coast for the next week, and so he theoretically wouldn't trouble Dorian's thoughts with his presence. Never mind the fact that he found himself overeager for news of the damned elf, frequently looking towards the gate like a pining maiden, and haunted by the feel of Lavellan's lips and hands against him anyway. 

Minor, unnecessary details.

If he weren't so busy lying to himself, he could have been putting more of an effort into his research into Corypheus, the Oculara, or translating Venatori messages. He could have been helping Vivienne or the wary mages trying to restore the tower, or Cole with his everything. He could be doing so much more.

Instead he found himself wandering towards the garden in his attempts to avoid work and thoughts of Lavellan. It was full of Chantry figures and Orlesian nobility, the occasional peasant, and some sad potted royal elfroot, all of whom seemed to turn towards him as he stepped through the door. 

Well.

He couldn't just turn around and leave, but he also couldn't just stand in the doorway forever. The stares didn't let up. 

Dorian huffed and stepped inside the makeshift gardens, undeterred by the attention, and set about taking an idle walk around the veranda. With each step, Chantry mothers would recoil, peasants averted their eyes, and Orlesian Nobles- it was difficult to see what their faces were twisted into underneath all the gaudy masks, but he could imagine. Ordinarily he would be reveling in the effects his mere presence could incite, but unfortunately it was serving as a prickly reminder of the most recent cause for rumor. 

It was a horrible decision, really. 

He couldn't bring himself to regret it. 

However, he wouldn't- _couldn't_ expect more. Lavellan was the Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, and it would not do to get him caught up in this mess. The kiss was a mistake born of vulnerability and- he shouldn't have done it, but he did, and he needed to leave it at that. It was usually rather easy; one fleeting moment of passion, then move on as if nothing happened. If it went poorly he would use or subvert any blackmail material and prematurely cut off any particularly unruly rumors. If it went well, he'd swallow down his wants and desires and maybe spare the man a glance the next time they met in public. 

Attempting to stuff Lavellan into his usual formula left an uncomfortable burning in his chest.

Worse still was what they could be saying about _Lavellan._

Dorian sighed, staring out into the courtyard but not actually gazing at anything in particular. He could deal with whatever was thrown his way, but he refused to get Lavellan wrapped up in it or for their words to target him. He needed to think of a way to end things soon, before it became too painful to do so.

Dorian looked down and found himself standing in front of a chess board. 

The pieces were intricately carved but well worn and chipped in places while the board had a large crack down the side. While he preferred the style more common in Tevinter, there was something charming in the rustic design. Absently, Dorian took a seat, running his fingers over the worn marble surface and admiring each individual piece as he set up the board. How long had it been since he played chess? He was certain he had played a match or two with Felix before his fateful trip to the Anderfels. 

"This is a bit of a surprise," Cullen's voice startled him. 

"Commander," Dorian greeted. He hadn't spoken to the man very much, mostly due to a difference in duties, but heard enough through the grapevine. "Don't suppose you'd fancy a game?"

Cullen's lips had the faintest uptick in the corners, "I have some time for a round. It'll be refreshing having a partner for a change."

"Solo play does get rather monotonous, doesn't it?" Dorian waggled his eyebrows and moved the first piece- a pawn and in a very safe maneuver- and laughed at the pink that rose to Cullen's cheeks. So Varric's tales were true after all.

Cullen huffed but moved a pawn of his own, shaking his head and ignoring his comment. "This board was the first thing we found in this courtyard, and the pieces were scattered in one of the lofts, but they were all there and intact. I set it up the first few days we settled. Despite all the work it hasn't got much use."

"And nobody bothered to tell me? How rude."

"There's not many in the Inquisition that play. Just me, Leliana, and the Inquisitor."

Dorian raised an eyebrow. "The Inquisitor plays chess?"

"He does now. I taught him how to play not long ago but he's a tough opponent," Cullen replied with a chuckle. "Don't expect a short match."

Knowing Lavellan, he probably thought of each move ahead of time and long into the future of the game. He'd be a fun match up; calculating, thoughtful, and too polite to call him out for cheating until after the game.

"I'm not sure why I'm even surprised. Sometimes it's hard to believe the man is even _real_."

"He's a quick study that's for sure. When we first met he was using a greatsword, but his form was all wrong. He learned quicker than any of my recruits."

Dorian paused, "how was he holding a sword wrong? I thought you just held it by the less pointy end and swung it around."

Cullen chuckled, taking one of Dorian's pieces. "It's a bit more than that. He had clearly been trained to use a sword and shield, but he insisted on a two handed weapon."

Dorian hummed, cataloguing that tidbit to mull later. "He certainly handles that greathammer of his like he knows what he is doing at least. I take it you met him quite early on then?"

"Shortly after the Inquisition was declared. Cassandra sent me a summons. I'll admit… we had a rocky start, but the Inquisitor is- I'm proud to have him as a leader."

"Me too." Dorian's grin turned into a wolfish smile as he took a Tower piece. "I do believe I about have this match."

Cullen shot him a smirk, "not quite. Don't think I haven't seen you sneaking pawns."

"Me? Never!" Dorian scoffed, eyeing the board.

"I do believe it's a checkmate regardless." Cullen leaned back in his chair, rubbing a gloved hand across the back of his neck. "I may... have time for another round, if you are up for it."

Dorian huffed, "of course. I need to win back my dignity."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do most of my writing at work, but I haven't had much time to sit down and actually *write*
> 
> A damn shame cos I'm dying to get to write some rather choice sections. 
> 
> This build up is killing me!


	28. The Western Approach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm kinda late but I ended up rewriting a good chunk of this chapter just today and getting hella distracted along the way
> 
> So anyway here's Wonderwall

The Inquisition was on the move westwards at the behest of Hawke and Stroud with the looming threat of something terrible nipping at their heels the whole way. Lavellan's summons had been an impartial letter delivered via messenger but the urgency had been clear. He needed someone who could understand Tevinter script, identify Venatori, and was familiar with darker magics. Dorian lamented but went without contest, knowing he was the only choice.

Difficult as it would be to avoid Lavellan on the road.

He'd been avoiding his Inquisitor ever since his return from the Storm Coast and spent most of the trek to the Approach at a measured distance. Lavellan hadn't commented, simply shooting him a knowing smile whenever he'd give some flimsy excuse to get out of a conversation or pretend to not see Dorian pretend to not see him. He supposed it was Lavellan's way of giving him space, avoiding any sort of pressure or expectation. 

It was both mind bogglingly thoughtful but also the most terrible sort of torture. He had had more than a week to do nothing but think about what happened between him and Lavellan since they had kissed. Now he had a lengthy journey to think about it while seeing him constantly and Maker did he ache to feel  _ it _ all again. The solidity, the comfort, the openness. Such easy things had been beyond his grasp in Tevinter, and bitterly he found himself wondering if this was what it was like for everyone outside of the Game, for everyone lucky enough to be acceptable for who and what they were.

He tried ignoring it, desperately willing the longing to go away, and yet it only seemed to intensify. So somewhere along the road to the Approach he had given up and accepted the fact that he was doomed to continue this… unseemly  _ lusting _ after Lavellan.

It would be easy enough to offer himself up to him, give the man whatever he wanted and hope whatever was returned was enough to get this out of his system. He'd hardly even mind. 

It was a foolish thought that he didn't entertain but once. Foolish because he knew once would never be enough. It had never been enough before, and when faced with someone as impossible as Lavellan… 

He couldn't. 

But he had to let Lavellan go before it got too difficult to do so.

Unfortunately for him it was only getting more and more difficult with each passing hour. The way he'd chat with Varric, his eyes sparkling with mischief, the attentive way he'd listen to Blackwall, offering his thoughtful insights, or the softly hummed notes to some song that flickered between a low dirge and an upbeat jaunt that would filter Dorian's way during particularly quiet moments. The way he could point out various plants and could imitate bird whistles with a nostalgic fondness that was borderline infectious. Dorian kept finding himself slipping- at each unbidden memory of his touch, at each soft smile leveled his way, as Lavellan traded anecdotes and half remembered stories for tidbits about Tevinter. They hadn't even made it beyond the Exalted Plains before Dorian was beginning to question why he'd ever even want to end things with Lavellan.

He was stupidly endearing that way.

Dorian sighed as he stretched his legs out by the fire, leaning back against a log as he watched Lavellan direct various scouts and soldiers as to their next steps. Blackwall was across the fire, fumbling with a needle and thread in the flickering light, but too engrossed in his work and naturally oblivious to comment. Which just left one factor to worry about when it came to his rather obvious staring. Varric passed him a bowl of something particularly goopy and took a spot next to him, joining his idle Inquisitor-watching. 

"I don't know how they manage to make food into glue," Varric muttered. "Or is it glue into food?"

"I'm quite certain it's glue, and the complete opposite of food." Dorian sullenly let the spoon drop back into the sludge with an unappealing slurping noise. "I never thought I'd miss something as basic as bread."

"It's the simple things in life. Well, maybe not always." Varric grimaced and tugged a pouch from inside his coat, sprinkling something black and coarsely ground on top of his slop. "Pepper?"

"Andraste bless your precious little boots, Varric."

The pepper helped only enough to make the questionable food slightly more edible, and the two silently slurped away at their gruel, watching Lavellan look over maps and documents. He certainly took being appointed Inquisitor better than being titled Herald of Andraste, but that was likely due to all the newfound agency that accompanied the new position. He was now less a figurehead and more an actual leader, although there was still the underlying sense that he was trapped in the position. It was nice seeing him free from the gilded cage he had been forced into by the religious devout, but Dorian wasn't blind to the leash that still bound him to the cause. 

"You know, I used to call him Smiles as a joke. Now he actually looks happy."

"Oh? Surely you aren't thinking of a new name," Dorian mused without taking his eyes off Lavellan. "That seems a little like cheating."

"Nah, the name still suits him. He's just smiling because he wants to, not because he  _ has _ to."

"He certainly seems to like being the Inquisitor," Dorian observed. "Still makes the most adorable faces when he gets called 'your worship' though."

"A common side effect of humility."

"Oh, I wouldn't know."

They lapsed back into silence, still watching Lavellan discuss things in low tones with a few scouts and officers. Blackwall headed to the tents after pricking his thumb one last time, and the fire began dwindling.

"You know, the promotion from religious symbol to elected leader isn't the only thing that's worked wonders on his mood," Varric began and Dorian cringed internally. "Whatever happened after Redcliffe changed something for the both of you."

"Whatever do you mean," Dorian replied flatly.

"You and him have something going on-"

"Is this coming from your little information network?"

"No, Sparkler, I have eyes. I may not be able to write a good romance without it ending in tragedy but I can at least  _ see _ one easy enough," Varric shot back, voice equally flat.

"Even if there was something between us, it wouldn't-  _ shouldn't _ go anywhere. So there's no use in any of it," Dorian muttered. It was the first time he'd spoken that thought out loud and it had him wilting. He'd never dare give a voice to any of  _ this _ , anything personal, but Varric was a special case he supposed, and he found himself all at once incredibly self conscious and also immensely relieved to finally… talk about it.

Talking about personal things was usually a deathwish, especially back home.

"Now why would you think that?"

Dorian glanced at Varric disbelievingly. "Wherever do I begin? I am a Tevinter Altus, a man at that, and a pariah even amongst my peers. Lavellan is a male Dalish elf, who by the way, is not only the leader of the Inquisition but also a religious icon for most." Dorian counted each point on his hands, before flinging them in the air when he realized Varric wasn't even looking. "His reputation is on the line, and I would not-" he hissed out the word- "- _ damage _ him in such a way."

Varric silently slipped out his flask, took a sip and passed it over. Dorian hadn't refused before and wasn't about to start. Especially after just baring his soul.

Eventually Varric spoke, "Lavellan hasn't gotten to choose much of anything so far." Dorian quietly sipped at the whiskey and waited for the dwarf to continue. "He gets to choose who comes with him to places, who gets to do what and when, but in the end he often does things because they  _ have _ to be done." It was a true enough point. Even if there was something Lavellan  _ did _ want, he likely wouldn't ever ask-

"Ah."

"All I'm saying is that he chose you because you happen to be something he actually wants, rumors be damned. And I'm pretty sure you'd choose him back if you weren't so..." Varric shrugged and waved a hand at him. "Unless, of course, I'm just imagining the couple of days you spent making puppy eyes at him."

"I did not make puppy eyes at him." 

"Keep telling yourself that, Sparkler. Anyway, maybe just talk things out. It may surprise you."

"You seem awfully… invested in the goings on between Lavellan and I," Dorian muttered, shooting the dwarf a sideways glance.

"I'm a mutual friend. It's what mutual friends do. I had plenty of this between Hawke and Broody to last a lifetime." Varric slipped the flask back into his mysterious and multi-pocketed coat. "Besides you two have provided me with an entire volume worth of material for my romance serial." 

Dorian sighed, rubbing at his temples. "I knew there was a limit to your stunning altruistic streak."

Varric simply snorted a short laugh and stood, clapping a hand on Dorian's shoulder and making his way over to the tents, leaving him with his thoughts and idle Inquisitor-watching. Lavellan still hadn't seemed to notice. All the better to help him sort things out and finally decide on what to do.

After a week and a half of riding and camping to get to the initial Inquisition outpost in the Western Approach, Dorian was ready to convince Lavellan to let the Venatori have this one for the seventeenth time. Unfortunately, Lavellan couldn't be swayed, even after a rather rude morning wake up call involving a scorpion in his tent (why did all the crawly things in Thedas need to be so  _ large _ -). Dorian took comfort in that he had tried his best.

The Western Approach according to Scout Harding was a miserable stretch of sand and sulphur pits with ridiculously hostile native fauna, ridiculously hostile and scantily clad Venatori, and was generally more hassle than it was probably worth. 

Dorian was convinced she had been downplaying just how terrible the Approach actually was. Half the water they found was undrinkable, there was blood everywhere, they couldn't move more than a few steps without hyenas trying to maul them, and that was just within a few hours of leaving the camp. The first thing they found was a cave full of red lyrium and corpses that were in various stages of mutilation and some kind of magical desiccation. They hadn't even made it halfway to the ancient Tevinter ritual tower that just screamed blood magic.

Safe to say they were off to a  _ great _ start. 

Unfortunately, the Wardens were already starting their demon army acquisition according to Hawke, which meant they didn't have much time to dawdle in this forsaken desert, so they had to trek through the unforgiving sand in doubletime. 

It still felt like ages before they made camp, night long since having fallen and the desert temperature plummeting like a stone. Dorian shivered as he waited for Lavellan and Blackwall to figure out how to set up the only tent while he and Varric sat around his magically induced campfire. The scouts wouldn't be here until late morning, depending on if the path Lavellan cleared would stay that way, so their camp would be rather bare boned. Fortunately it was only for one night. One night with one tent between the four of them.

"Alright, that's finished," Lavellan huffed, clapping the dusty sand from his hands as he stood. "It would be best to take watches in pairs tonight. Who wants to join me?"

"I'm sure a certain Warden wouldn't mind." Dorian avoided eye contact with Lavellan while shamelessly volunteering Blackwall- who at least looked agreeable to the idea. It was a flimsy stopgap to put off the inevitable heart to heart with Lavellan he had been avoiding for weeks now.

"Nonsense, Hero and I can take the morning shift. We're early risers," Varric countered with a mildly suspicious chuckle. He elbowed the Warden, nodding to the tent pointedly. "Aren't we?"

Lavellan arched an eyebrow, puzzled, head tilted to the side as he eyed the dwarf. "Varric, I've never seen you willingly get up before brunch."

"Uh," Blackwall added helpfully. 

Varric shrugged, "first time for everything." 

Unfortunately for Dorian, Blackwall seemed to at least decide the situation would be easily resolved by him just going along with Varric. He doubted the man actually knew what the dwarf was up to, as oblivious as he often was.

Dorian on the other hand knew damned well what Varric was up to and swore vengeance under his breath. 

"I suppose it's just you and me for the first watch then." Lavellan shot him a quick smile and pointed towards some nearby brush. "I'll grab some tinder, keeping that fire going all night with magic alone will drain your mana."

"That  _ would _ be rather unfortunate, mostly for me." Dorian watched him go and sighed as soon as he was far enough away.

It was going to be a long first watch.

It was quiet when Lavellan came back and got the fire going more naturally, the winds stirring the sand into little eddies that caught the flickering light. The desert was deceptively peaceful after the sun had set- either that or he just couldn't see any of the horrible quillbacks and varghests prowling the dunes. Dorian began working on translating the piles of Venatori messages they had acquired while Lavellan slipped off his boots and began pouring out the sand… which never seemed to end. 

Lavellan sighed down at the pyramid he created under his foot. "This is by far the worst landscape in Thedas."

Dorian looked up, surprised. "Worse than the Fallow Mire? I heard you fell into a particularly corpse filled patch of mud."

"Please don't remind me," Lavellan muttered with a grimace. "That place was rather horrible, but at least it wasn't…", he gestured grandly to the sprawling sandy and hostile wasteland around them.

"This is the first time I've heard you complain about nature." Lavellan dug his toes into the sand with a content little hum. Dorian frowned, "I should be offended. Complaining about nature is what  _ I _ do."

"Oh, I know," Lavellan laughed. 

"What's next? Are you going to start ranking the creatures here on a scale of how terrible they are?"

"Quillbacks. Honestly, the worst creature here- maybe even in all of Thedas."

"I can't believe this. Our fearless, stoic leader who never complains.  _ Complaining _ . What's next? Any more thoughts?" 

Lavellan smirked, "not at all. It's been awhile since we've shared a tent but the last few times have been rather pleasant." The smirk on his face flickered, replaced by something almost shy. "Although, I ah- we never did end up talking about it. What happened after Redcliffe."

Dorian had selfishly been hoping 'later' would really be more of a never, even though he knew it needed to be addressed. "No, I suppose we didn't."

There was an awkward silence for several minutes, broken only by the crackle of flames, where neither could seem to look at each other.

"I'm rather fond of you," Lavellan eventually blurted. "Things are… it's easier to breathe with you around. It's selfish of me." Dorian had never seen The Inquisitor fidget before, but he had a front row seat now as the elf fiddled nervously with the plating of his gauntlets. "I'll understand if you want to- if you can't work beside me. I ah, realize I have overstepped. I took advantage of you during a moment of weakness-"

"I kissed you first," Dorian interjected hollowly. This wasn't the conversation he'd been expecting  _ at all _ . Let alone how… unsure Lavellan was. In a way it made his decision slightly easier.

Lavellan didn't look up from his restless hands. "You did."

He wasn't expecting this to be about his comfort. He had been expecting something more in regards to his reputation, his image, not about  _ this _ . He had kissed Lavellan first, he had instigated, and to say he had been  _ pressured _ somehow by Lavellan praising him a little during a hug… This entire conversation had gone in a strange direction.

"You never took advantage of me. If anything, I took advantage of you."

Lavellan looked up, a sad smile on his lips. "You didn't. I've wanted a kiss from you for a while." He looked away again. "Among other things."

"Then we've both gotten something we wanted," Dorian swallowed nervously. "You must understand… pursuing anything like  _ this _ , it will have a certain impact on your reputation."

Lavellan sighed. "I know. I'm no longer just a religious figure, I'm a political one and this sort of liaison would be detrimental towards whatever image that's been carefully crafted for me. But…" Lavellan scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I'm still me, and while I will play their Game, I refuse to let it rule me." Lavellan smiled softly. "Someone told me that you have to fight for what's in your heart, and I- I'd like to fight with you by my side."

"I did say that, now didn't I," Dorian murmured, smiling because, "there's nowhere else I'd rather be but with you." Lavellan's smile widened, relief flushing the tension from his shoulders. "You mentioned something about wanting that kiss for a while now."

"Only since midway through our foray into the Hinterlands."

"My dear Inquisitor, it would appear as though we have quite a bit of time to make up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. *Yeah*. >;3


	29. Dark Ritual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ploooooooot

Dorian was exhausted, not just from all the endless hiking, but also from all the secret and careful kisses he'd shared with Lavellan long into the night that left him with little time to sleep. They'd been chaste and unbearably soft, more so than he expected after such a flirtatious ending to such a heartfelt conversation, and yet he really shouldn't have been surprised. 

They weren't exactly alone, after all.

He'd never had anything so… gentle or unhurried. All his previous encounters had been rushed and impersonal, even during his longest stints in the brothels throughout Tevinter. Lavellan had managed to keep every press featherlight, teasingly sliding his lips and tongue until Dorian had all but melted into the sand under the bedroll they ended up sharing. Pressed against each other with too many layers between them, hands unable to delve leaving all exploration confined to just their mouths. Even after they had broken apart, he had remained awake for too long, the phantom sensation remaining on his lips like a ghost. The heat building up under his skin from so much physical touch after such a long time without, tempered into a dull warmth by Lavellan's slow and methodical movements, had burned the edges of sleep away. 

It had been both mindbogglingely fantastic and incredibly frustrating. 

The noise of the scouts arrival had been what woke him up, stupidly early in his opinion despite it being mid-morning, alone in the tent. He had redressed and touched up his kohl and hair as best he could, but he likely looked a mess. Lavellan was already out and about directing the scouts and carts, efficient and somehow alert and looking positively _chipper_. Dorian side eyed him grumpily.

"Shit Sparkler, you wake up with sand in your smalls?" Varric whispered when he made his way out of the tent. 

"I wouldn't be surprised, I'll certainly never get the sand out of my robes," Dorian grumbled, scrubbing a hand across his brow as he took a seat beside the dwarf. 

"Your talk not go well?"

"Oh, no, it went surprisingly well. I think," he trailed off. "We should have talked earlier. Much earlier."

Varric nodded sagely. "You should have. All that pining was starting to give me secondhand frustration."

"We have not been _pining_."

"You have. It's adorable and stupid, you two are perfect for each other."

Dorian shot Varric his most pointedly offended glare. The dwarf ignored him. 

Shortly after he had sat down and eaten a quick breakfast, they were back on the move again, heading towards an ancient ritual tower on the very edge of a chasm. It was surprisingly close- too close all things considered- and Dorian wondered how they had managed to go unseen by all the Wardens coming through for so long. Oddly enough, nobody ever seemed to leave.

Hawke and Stroud were a short distance away, chatting in low tones behind the cover of a crumbling series of pillars. They both looked up as the group approached.

"It's good you are here, Inquisitor," Stroud greeted with a nod and no preamble. "I fear they have already started the ritual."

"What exactly is this ritual anyway?" Lavellan asked.

"My guess is that it's a half-baked scheme to prevent future Blights. Likely involving blood magic and the tossing out of any last moral compasses," Hawke bit out.

"Easy Champion, the Wardens are just trying to do what's right," Blackwall defended and Dorian couldn't help but snort. "It's a noble goal."

"There's nothing noble about this," Hawke snapped.

"Enough," Lavellan interjected, voice sharp. "We can discuss the Warden's ethics after we stop the ritual."

"We should hurry." Stroud nodded towards the single ominous bridge leading towards the doubly ominous ritual tower situated on a rocky outcropping above a Blighted chasm.

"Such a lovely place you've taken me yet again, Inquisitor," Dorian muttered darkly as he followed closely after Lavellan and company. Dark swathes of dried blood painted the stone like a morbid fresco, trailing thicker and fresher the further in they went.

"And you always complain I never take you anywhere nice," Lavellan quipped.

All chatter ceased as they walked closer and closer to the sprawling tower, the desert an eerie quiet around them. Even their footsteps against the worn stone under them were unnaturally muted. It was not so unlike the moment before a lightning strike. Except the lightning never seemed to come, the static just seemed to build up until Dorian's very soul felt on edge. The prickling of his skin swiftly turned to shuddering revulsion as the sharp scent of iron and demonic ichor wafted from between the sandblasted archways of the ritual tower. 

"Maker's cock," Varric swore and Dorian wordlessly agreed as the scene inside the tower revealed itself.

There were bodies of Wardens littering the walkways and piled in corners, and between them stood mages and demons, backs ramrod stiff, staring ahead. Nobody looked their way, save one Warden warrior. The man trembled, called out, but the mage behind him slit his throat with a cold hand and colder blankness. The warrior fell with a gurgle.

"Ah, the Inquisition arrives," a voice boomed from a raised platform on the edge of the tower. "What an unexpected pleasure." A man, a mage judging by the staff in his hands, stood with his arms raised in welcome. "Livius Erimond, at your service," Livius bowed, his thin lips curled in a mocking smile.

"Livius Erimond? The Venatori must be truly desperate if they recruited you," Dorian scoffed. Lavellan's chuckle was immensely gratifying. "I didn't think they'd stoop to letting small rodents into their ranks."

"Ah. Dorian Pavus- though is that still your house? I was under the impression your daddy gave you the boot," Livius sneered.

Dorian rolled his eyes. "How creative."

"What are you doing with the Wardens? You aren't part of the Order," Stroud interrupted.

Livius narrowed his eyes. "Ah, and you must be the one who got away. So you went and found the Inquisitor to come and stop me? Let's see how that goes, shall we?"

"Wardens! This man is lying to you-" Stroud yelled. He grabbed the nearest mage's arm and tugged, but it didn't illicit so much as a twitch.

"That's spooky," Varric muttered.

"Lying? Let's see what the Wardens think of such _outlandish_ accusations? Wardens, hands _up_ -" a flurry of arms raising in a twisted mirror of the man looming above them. "And hands down. "Ah, I suppose they don't think much at all."

"I take it back, _that_ was spookier."

Hawke sighed, "I hate blood magic." Dorian patted his shoulder in silent agreement.

"The Wardens were so scared of another Blight, they were desperate, you see? So desperate they looked everywhere."

"Even Tevinter," Stroud hissed.

"I went to Clarel full of sympathy and a plan to end the Blights for good. A demon army, to storm the Deep Roads and kill the old gods before they woke."

"Ah," Lavellan's voice was a surprise given how quiet he had been. "I was wondering when the demon army would show up."

"Oh," Livius seemed to deflate. "You knew? Well. No matter, this was only a test. Once I have all the Wardens-"

"Save it. Release them and I might let you live," Lavellan cut off his monologue with a low growl. His hand was halfway raised to the hilt of his weapon.

"Now why would I do that? You can't order me to do anything," he scoffed. The focus of his staff began to glow red, matching the red forming from the palm in his hands. "My master gave me something to deal with you."

Lavellan gasped and jerked in pain, the Anchor flashing green and sickly yellow, seeping into orange. He grasped his wrist tight enough for Dorian to hear the bones click together. 

"Inquisitor," Dorian questioned worriedly, missing the man's monologue as he watched Lavellan curl into himself slowly. The Anchor sparked and flared, static threads arcing to the ground and leaving fine singed lines. 

Livius began to laugh a grating noise but abruptly paused as Lavellan lifted up his marked hand towards him. There was a spark, a flash, and then a screeching hum as the sky tore open and _pulled_. The force of it knocked everyone nearby flat and ripped apart the summoned demons around it. All the humans unfortunate enough to be caught in the middle were torn into ribbons and yanked through. Livius was tossed like a ragdoll into the rather spiky Tevinter architecture, but it wasn't enough to do more than slow his retreat. His cries of "kill them! Kill them all!" were just barely audible over the maelstrom in the ritual tower. Lavellan let the rift close with a pop and lifted his greataxe with shaking hands.

There were a few demons that were far enough away from whatever Lavellan unleashed to not get hit, and they swiftly descended upon the group along with their brainwashed summoners. Blackwall and Stroud seemed torn regarding fighting their own, but Hawke and Varric settled into an easy fighting stance that spoke to how often they had fought alongside each other. Dorian raised a barrier as Lavellan stood in front and swung.

The end of the greataxe settled into the head of a shade with a sickening crunch, splashing demonic ichor across the stone. It was loud, especially in the quiet of the tower, and it echoed like a sick parody of a bell. It signaled the battle to begin in earnest. Lavellan swung again, quick and deceptively light despite his bulky strength, Blackwall and Stroud following up behind shielding his sides and back. Hawke seemed to favor electricity, and focused on shocking those in his sights as Varric took advantage of each stun. Which left Dorian to do what he did best: keep everyone alive. A wall of ice to divert a trio of shades coming from a corner, an immolation to panic a Warden mage, a minor fear spirit to dissuade anyone trying to take advantage of any backs, and so many barriers he thought his hands would fly off.

There were a great many mages here, and a good number of demons. Dorian hated to think of how many more Corypheus had in his clutches.

By the end of it, they were all breathing ragged, but still breathing. There was a nasty set of slices across Blackwall's bicep and Varric had a slight limp, but otherwise it seemed the battle had gone relatively smoothly. It certainly helped that Lavellan had done- whatever it was he had done. 

"That went well," Hawke said with a grunt, yanking the bladed end of his staff out of the back of a dead mage.

"The Warden mages are all slaves to Corypheus," Stroud muttered, disbelieving.

"At least the warriors-" Stroud shook his head and Hawke sighed. "Right. It's not _real_ blood magic until someone gets sacrificed."

"They were trying to stop Blights for good. Noble, but ultimately stupid," Lavellan sighed. He had taken off his heavy gauntlets and Dorian couldn't tear his eyes away. The Anchor looked as though it was sitting deeper into the flesh of his palm, lighting up his veins with a greenish glow ending just at his wrist. He looked unsurprised and unperturbed by this development. At least the thing had settled down- for now.

"The Wardens were just trying to do what they thought was right," Stroud defended hotly.

Hawke turned and rounded on Stroud with a glare. "Everyone always has their reasons and justifications, but in the end you will always be alone with your actions and-" Hawke eased back as Varric gently tugged on his sleeve, and glanced away.

It was quiet for a long moment until Lavellan sighed and tugged his leather gloves back on, the metal of the gauntlets glinting as they slid overtop. "Regardless, we can't let the Order fall to Corypheus. Any ideas?"

"Inquisitor, I believe I know where the Wardens may be." Stroud pointed off into the desert, and was met by an endless sand. "I saw Erimond head that way, the direction of Adamant."

Blackwall seemed to quiver with excitement. "The ancient Warden fortress on the edge of the abyss. That-" he coughed, "-that, makes sense. Why they would go there."

Lavellan chuckled as Hawke nodded. "Stroud and I will go scout the place beforehand. Chances are…"

"It'll be a siege," Lavellan finished with a sigh. "If the Wardens are there and under the control of Corypheus, we'll need to prepare for war."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so much freetime now ;_; you'd think I'd be writing more.


	30. The Still Ruins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow sorry this is late I've been playing so much Animal Crossing and self isolation is hurting my mental health like an over time posion spell 
> 
> So yeah have some fun banter

"So Smiles," Varric said into the quiet of the desert. "What was that back there?"

"Several bad decisions all combining into one worse decision, I suppose." Lavellan eyed a passing Deathroot tree with a frown. He seemed mercifully uninclined to mess with it- likely due to all the thorns he earned for his trouble last time.

"Well, yeah. That was obvious. I meant the trick with the weird thing in your hand. I've never seen you do that before."

"To be honest, I didn't think I _could_ do it again. The first time it happened was after Haven."

Dorian couldn't help his intrigue. "After your confrontation with Corypheus?" Lavellan nodded. "He did something to it then- he changed it."

"He tried ripping it out. Then complained it was stuck and broken."

"Seems in working order to me," Blackwall muttered. 

Dorian could practically feel the uneasiness radiating from Lavellan. "I don't think I'll use it again on anything but demons. Not if I can avoid it."

Given the fact that the rift he summoned all but _shredded_ what was caught in its wake, Dorian couldn't blame him. It seemed like a cruelty. 

The group was quiet as they followed the northern path around the springs and mine entrances. It was a different way than they had originally come, a much shorter but less stealthy route that led to several Venatori watchmen and then suddenly an entire Venatori operation. Right on the other side of the low mesa valley the closest Inquisition camp was based in. 

"What are they up to in there," Blackwall asked, looking around the low rocky wall they were all crammed behind.

Varric huffed. "Maybe they are planning a surprise birthday party."

"Perhaps they are a dance group, choreographing their routines in the privacy of an abandoned Tevinter," Lavellan trailed off, glancing towards the ruins before shrugging. "Tevinter whatever that place is."

"It's a research outpost. It's in the architecture," Dorian interjected helpfully. "It's also inscribed above the door."

"Thank you," said Blackwall, clearly unthankful. "Should we intervene?"

"Absolutely."

The Venatori were obviously expecting them, no doubt having caught sight of the camps springing up and scouts passing through but they weren't prepared for the _Inquisitor_. To be fair, few people ever seemed prepared to see him. It offered a certain element of surprise.

There were a large number of Venatori warriors and mages outside of the ruined research outpost and any semblance of stealth was ruined by how oddly echoey the courtyard was. In a way it made things easier, as it attracted all the enemy Venatori closer for optimal killing. Unfortunately it was _loud_ , earsplittingly so and ended up attracting yet another pack of hyenas before they were done with the Venatori. Dorian had never used so many ice walls and glyphs in such a short time and found himself shivering and brushing off frost.

"This place is creepy too," Varric observed quietly. "Why are Tevinter places so creepy?"

"Do warriors in Tevinter not wear pants? I haven't seen a single one wear pants," Blackwall observed as well, blushing furiously. 

Both looked over at Dorian, who shrugged weakly.

Meanwhile, Lavellan was sizing up the rather formidable looking iron door but tested the large ringed handle first before deciding whether to kick it down. It was good to know he listened to Madame de Fer on occasion. The bottom of the door scraped against the sandstone beneath it, but it was unlocked and apparently unguarded, opening up into a deserted inner courtyard.

"Strange, there's nobody in here," Lavellan said, grimacing as his voice ricocheted off the walls as if they were in a narrow corridor instead of outdoors.

"There's a note." Varric lifted it off the table and handed it over to Dorian.

"Other than some rather amusing opinions on the man who must be supervising this whole affair, this doesn't say much."

Lavellan nodded. "They still must be here for a reason. We'll just have to go further in."

The oppressive silence only became more pronounced as they approached the inner doors. Every bit of dust seemed to hang in the air longer and every rock that fell made a clear noise as if all other ambient sound was gone. When they opened the doors it both made perfect sense and raised even more questions.

The world was a perfect picture of an apocalyptic ending within the ruins.

The ceiling had been in the process of caving in and multiple pillars had been crumbling and tipping over. Sand had slowly begun filling the space, weathering away at the stone and metal and burying both building and body. _Maker_ the bodies. Lying in pools of blood still as fresh looking as when it was spilled, locked in battle against a flood of demons, all still as statues. It was a snapshot of calamity, a disaster frozen in time.

Dorian swore under his breath, staring at a demon caught midway through a rift torn in the Veil. The magic here was oppressive, bearing down on him like a crushing tide. The familiarity of it made him sick. Fade manipulation. Temporal magic. _His_ magic.

"Dorian?" 

Lavellan's fingers brushed his palm and Dorian jerked away. A glance to the side had him relaxing- if only slightly- as Varric and Blackwall weren't even facing their way and were quite occupied with a floating piece of rubble. He knew he didn't need to worry about Varric since the dwarf had a modicum of respect for privacy, and Blackwall couldn't put two and two together even if he saw it. But paranoia was a hard thing to lose and the hurt that flashed across Lavellan's face had him backing away. 

"Are you alright?" Lavellan's voice was small. His hand had dropped to his side and Dorian found himself unable to meet his eyes. 

"Of course. Just another day of Tevinter mages dabbling in things they shouldn't." 

"Dorian-" Lavellan was cut off by Varric calling for him. Dorian was thankful.

Lavellan froze as he saw what Varric was pointing towards and Dorian felt himself wither from the guilt. There was a large rift in the center of the ruined research outpost, likely the cause for some of the architectural instability from it's gravity alone. 

"Well," Lavellan huffed uneasily. "Shit."

"Yep," Varric agreed, popping the 'p' at the end.

Dorian couldn't claim responsibility for the rift, but the magic at work here was eerily similar to the magic he developed with Alexius. Either the Venatori had managed to get a copy of his notes or at least some of them, or they had someone else working on this type of thing. From what he knew of Corypheus, he liked to diversify his assets. Likely, Alexius wasn't the only one working on time manipulation. Upon closer inspection of some of the bodies, he noticed they were in fact Venatori and not ancient mages from the past like he had hoped. So whatever had happened to cause such a massive rift and frozen time had happened relatively recently. 

"I hear voices coming from further in," Blackwall said. Sure enough, the faintest echo of shouting came from further within the ruins.

Lavellan led the way, maneuvering around static battles and fallen rubble. They passed through several halls and side rooms, but every document they found was less than helpful and only seemed to raise more questions and every sound they followed was just an echo from further within. Eventually they seemed to stumble out into yet another courtyard, only this one was full of Venatori. Some were inspecting their frozen comrades and the demons assailing them with a morbid fascination while others were discussing things in as hushed tones as possible. They all turned as the doors opened, eyes widening at the sight of Lavellan.

Nobody moved for a short eternity

The Venatori were the first to move, their scantily clad warriors all shouting and drawing their swords and charging. Lavellan looked less than impressed but met them upon the stairs with a wide sweep. Blackwall followed close behind but Dorian stayed with Varric and tried to rapidly assess the situation they walked in on. Five warriors and three mages, one of whom looked vaguely familiar. There was no time to investigate so Dorian pushed down his curiosity and instead focused on placing fiery glyphs at the base of the stairs. 

He had no doubt the Inquisitor and Blackwall could keep the enemy warriors occupied and far away, but the three mages would be more difficult to handle. These weren't the untrained apostates of the Hinterlands or the fettered mages of the Wardens or even the dregs of the roaming Venatori. These were proper Tevinter mages, and it showed in each flourish of their hands and the quality of their equipment. Dorian wasted no time summoning spirits of fear and horror to his side. 

Few mages in Tevinter studied necromancy for a great many reasons so it tended to leave them vulnerable to its spells. The entropic and elemental arts were simple, but there was also a simplicity in the spectre of death that couldn't be denied. Two of the mages succumbed to the fear and panic of the spirits grasping at them from the Veil, interrupting one mid-cast and sending the other bolting away from the fight. The third, the one he thought he recognized, attempted to push back on the incorporeal spirits and focused instead on Dorian. It wasn't ideal but workable.

Dorian steadied the barrier around himself and Varric and summoned lightning in the same breath, gathering a storm of it in his hands. The crackling sparks of it tingled his fingertips as he focused it towards the Venatori mage. It shattered holes in the man's barrier, arcing satisfyingly onto the other mage nearby that had been frozen by Dorian's spirits. A bolt from Varric's crossbow tore through his neck and he dropped to the ground.

The mage that had run off returned right as the spirits dispersed from the fallen Venatori with a concussive burst, exploding in a poisonous ichor that burned through his robes and straight to the skin. Varric whistled under his breath but mercifully sent twin bolts into the screaming mage's chest. The last mage was stepping backwards, his barrier melting under the strain of the explosive ichor but coalescing into fire at his feet. The spirits had returned to Dorian's side from beyond the Veil and he didn't have the mana to pull them back through. The last Venatori mage pulled the fire up his staff and into his hand, but before he could send it anywhere the sharp hook of a grappling chain tore through his shoulder. 

Lavellan, flecked with blood, gripped the chain and yanked- sending the man to the ground and the fire sputtering out. Blackwall brought his sword down and with that, the courtyard was brought into eerie silence. 

"Everyone okay?" Lavellan breathed. His armor was dented in places, torn shallowly in others. His nose was bleeding and a bruise was forming along his cheekbone.

Blackwall grunted, but was bleeding sluggishly from a cut on his bicep and above his eyebrow. Varric was unscathed, as was Dorian- though he was desperately low on mana.

Lavellan nodded and began inspecting the courtyard, Blackwall warily following after. Dorian made for the Venatori mage he recognized and froze in recognition. He couldn't remember the name, but the face he had seen once before while he was still in Tevinter. This man had visited Alexius's estate, had asked about the magic they had been developing, had asked to see the notes while laughing and saying 'it isn't possible'. He had left not longer after arriving, but Dorian hadn't seen him since. 

Had he been with the Venatori during that time? Had Alexius? More so than that… the worry that he had some hand in what happened here reared its ugly head yet again. 

Varric fiddled with the door across the one they came in and shrugged. "It's one of those weird doors that uses _bits_ to open. It's got five slots."

"Of course. Why ever use keys?" Lavellan shook his head and sighed. "That makes too much sense. Far too practical."

"It certainly is if you are trying to keep people out," said Dorian.

"Or something in," Varric added ominously.

Lavellan continued to grumble but paused as he lifted a metallic looking stone from beside a fallen Venatori mage. It whispered not unlike the shards they had been collecting across the face of Thedas, but was far smaller in size. "Does this look like it would fit?"

Varric nodded and caught it as it was tossed. "It fits! That's good… probably."

"Probably not," Blackwall countered but was searching for more anyway.

Lavellan found another two while Blackwall lifted Varric to reach one tossed up onto a ledge. Dorian also found another strange piece… in the frozen hand of a Venatori mage in the process of being mauled. Gingerly he attempted to pry apart the man's fingers but to no avail. The sudden appearance of Lavellan beside him had him jolting off the ground.

"Let me," Lavellan offered, slipping a knife from his boot. 

Dorian looked away quickly, but his eyes flickered back to note that the blood was frozen solid in the veins of the unfortunate mage. "Thank you, Inquisitor."

Lavellan shot him an uneasy smile. "Please don't thank me for cutting off a man's fingers, but you're quite welcome." 

They both headed towards the sealed door without another glance back towards the unlucky mage and Varric set about sticking the stones into the slots. The door shook but swung open easily at his touch and opened into a red painted rotunda. Not paint, as Dorian discovered, but droplets of blood suspended in a cloud. The body of a mage, dessicated from blood magic laid at the foot of a little altar with a staff embedded in it. Atop its gnarled end was a focus- the skull of a Tranquil, the brand burned into bone. 

Nobody moved for a long moment.

Lavellan was the first to brave the fog of blood, visibly tensing as the droplets condensed on his armor as he moved forward to grab a small note next to the dead mage. He gingerly passed it to Dorian before inspecting the staff with a grim interest. 

"Well… I guess that solves that mystery, among others. This was a Venatori research outpost. Shockingly their blood magic experiments opened a rift. They then used blood magic to manipulate time to contain it."

"Ah yes, the age old solution to blood magic," Lavellan said sardonically. "More blood magic."

Blackwall snorted. 

"My guess is they are using that staff as a focus to hold things in stasis," Dorian continued, guilt holding his smile hostage.

"Best we don't touch that staff then," Varric muttered.

"It must be a powerful staff to do all this." Lavellan looked back at the embedded staff thoughtfully. "If a bit… macabre."

"The thing's likely cursed," Blackwall grimaced. "We should leave it be."

Lavellan shook his head and turned back towards the staff. "We can't leave this place as it is."

"Sure we can, Smiles. It's pretty off putting."

"What if someone removes the staff? There's still a rift here, and as far as we know I'm the only one able to close them."

Dorian was reluctant to admit that he had a point, as were his fellow companions. Varric sighed dramatically. "Fine. Take the creepy skull stick."

"The things I do for the good of the world," the elf complained under his breath.

He at least hesitated for a long moment before pulling the staff free and unleashing the contained calamity around them. The droplets of blood surrounding the rotunda splattered to the ground like rain, there was a distant rumble like the collapse of a building, and suddenly screaming from outside. Lavellan grimaced.

"I hate the Western Approach," he sighed.

It would be another three hours before they made it to the camp along the edge of the only drinkable water source not infested with varghests in the whole Approach. They were covered in blood, sand, and the uncanny film carried over from the Fade. Lavellan was nursing a burn on his shoulder, a sprained wrist, and several deep cuts. Blackwall was similarly bloodied and had broken his shield against the face of a particularly solid Terror demon. Varric had a split lip and the knuckles of his left hand were bloody and Dorian was drained of all mana and had bruises all over from too many Terror demons popping out of the floor beneath him. They were a mess.

The Inquisition scouts and management fortunately gave them a wide berth, leaving them to tend to their wounds and slurp tiredly at something similar to soup. Eventually all but the watch filtered into their tents until it was just him and Lavellan sitting quietly by the fire. Exhausted as he was, Dorian didn't make a move to leave. He couldn't blame it on his trepidation of sharing a tent with Blackwall and his insufferable snoring either.

"It wasn't your fault." 

Lavellan's voice startled him. "I'm not so sure about that." Dorian took a deep breath, organizing his still jumbled thoughts as best as he could before continuing. "It was magic I helped develop. It may have been incomplete when I left, but it was enough to lay the groundwork for others."

"What others choose to do with your work isn't something you can control."

"No, but it was irresponsible of me to meddle with something so inherently dangerous." Dorian couldn't bear to look at Lavellan. "I'll understand if you wish to hold me accountable- as you well should."

"I will not hold another man's choices over your head. You did not give your research to the Venatori. Alexius did."

"You haven't sentenced him yet."

"No, not yet."

Dorian nodded absently but didn't reply. Lavellan stretched his legs from his seat across Dorian and the silence hung over them, awkward and heavy as a blanket. There was another thing he had been feeling twisted up over all day.

"I'm sorry," Dorian blurted. "About before." Lavellan tilted his head, face scrunched in curiosity and confusion. "When I- pulled away from you."

"Ah."

"I am unused to… such public displays."

"Public?" Lavellan's eyebrows shot up. "We're in the middle of a Blighted desert."

"Yes, well," Dorian chuckled despite himself. "It's still rather open, compared to what I am accustomed to. I was… hidden, for most of my life. I didn't become more open with my _proclivities_ until the day before my wedding, but in all regards it was still a well hidden secret. It was the day I realized I could no longer keep living the lie I had been. I met Alexius not long after and was able to placate my parents to postpone my wedding indefinitely. They still held out hope and I never changed their minds, but it didn't matter much. I had my falling out with Alexius and you know the rest." Dorian took a deep breath, reveling in the freedom of finally getting out the words held tightly in his heart for so long but also terrified of Lavellan's response. "Maker, it's only been a year since then."

Lavellan regarded him thoughtfully for a few moments. "So you are still engaged to be married then? Technically speaking."

"To Livia Herathinos. I'm quite certain she's glad I'm gone and has moved on to some other, more promising engagement."

The fire crackled and Lavellan chuckled softly but didn't reply until the flames lowered. His whisper was barely audible, "I had thought you decided I was a mistake to pursue."

Dorian looked at the elf incredulously. Lavellan didn't meet his gaze.

"Why in Andraste's name would you think that?" He spluttered.

Lavellan glanced his way, frowning. "I'm a Dalish elf and I'm not exactly… " he gestured to the jagged scar on his cheek stiffly- "and an evil darkspawn lunatic wishes death upon me and everything around me."

"Everything you've pointed out so far is quite attractive, I assure you," Dorian countered. "You are a stunning and rather commendable Dalish elf." Either the fire was playing tricks with Lavellan's face or he was blushing. "I apologize for making you think I was pushing you away."

"I understand your reasoning- I hadn't thought of it your way." Lavellan smiled, easy and slightly vulnerable looking. "Perhaps we can both endeavor to think of each other more."

"Lavellan, if I thought of you any more than I already did I would get nothing done."

The elf laughed, loud enough to end Blackwall's snoring for the moment. Dorian grimaced. He was not looking forward to spending the night around that. 

"My tent is quite far from Blackwall, you're welcome to share it with me."

  
"Yes, _please._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading ;_;


	31. A Short Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posting this just before midnight my time therefore it technically is still being updated on Saturdays.
> 
> Logic.

After a brief detour to storm a very fancy albeit derelict keep on the edge of the Blighted fissure stretching across most of the Approach and following a harried trek back across southern Thedas, they made it back to Skyhold in record time. 

Dorian was certainly ready to leave the desert behind, although it seemed to linger after him regardless for most of the week and a half long journey home. He had enough sand on his person to leave a trail all the way until just south of Montsimmard. Luckily there was a lovely creek that cut close to the edge of the route there and for once Dorian didn't mind the frigid chill after the heat of the Approach. The amount of dust and grit that washed off him was mind-boggling. He was fortunate that was all he took with him as Lavellan had brought a more unfortunate and lasting souvenir from the desert in the form of a blistering burn all over his face and ears and down his neck.

"Andraste's flaming bush, Smiles, your face matches your hair," Varric muttered in awe and worry.

Lavellan groaned, wincing everytime Dorian pressed an icy cloth to his beet red skin only to sigh at the soothing cold. "I hate the desert. And the sun. And the sand."

"The wildlife is pretty terrible too," Dorian added. 

"That too," Lavellan agreed with a nod. The motion made him wince and groan again.

"Chin up, Inquisitor. You won't be as ghostly pale after this." Blackwall's optimism was not only misplaced but given the bleary glare he received, was also unwelcome.

One of the scouts on the road gave them a jar of disconcertingly viscous jelly that soothed some of the burn, but did little for the pain and slight delirium. Dorian was left in charge of helping smooth it over the skin of Lavellan's enflamed face as well as keeping him atop his horse. As utterly miserable as Lavellan was, it made for an interesting ride home.

He was certainly not looking forward to returning to the Approach, and he had little doubt Lavellan felt the same.

They weren't the only ones either. Varric had been quite vocal with his opinions on the desert and its occupants, and while Blackwall had been more reserved with his comments, he made his disdain rather clear. But ever the dutiful soldier, going wherever and doing whatever was needed with hardly a blink, he kept his thoughts to himself for the most part. It unnerved Dorian a bit, seeing the way Blackwall hung onto Lavellan's every order like a lifeline and offering few counterpoints. If Lavellan was bothered by it, he put on a convincing face while they discussed the impending siege in hushed and grim tones. A topic he avidly avoided.

Dorian had never fought in a war before. An Altus, the son and only heir of a magister's house wouldn't ever see battle under normal circumstances. He might have been sent off to fight off the Qunari, had his parents disowned him more thoroughly, but… an actual war? 

It was a strange thing to get caught up on. Dorian had killed people before he even left Tevinter, had killed in self defense and for personal reasons and for all the rationales in between. However, a large battle like Adamant promised would be an entirely different beast, he just didn't know how different. 

The prospect was a little terrifying.

"You seem nervous," Lavellan asked him once when they were a few days out of the Approach. He was refilling his leather waterskin, a gift from the Iron Bull. It still had the strange blue tint of an august ram. 

"Whatever about?" 

"Adamant."

"Ah, yes, the upcoming siege of the impregnable fortress that not even the Darkspawn could overcome." Dorian tended to babble when he was attempting to be nonchalant. It was an unfortunate habit that did not help him sound nonchalant at all. "I'm not nervous."

Lavellan glanced up at him, too quick to tell what he was thinking, before ducking back down to fill Varric's fine leather waterskin next. He seemed to be carefully crafting his next words.

"Perhaps you could stay back with the commanders, behind the frontlines."

"Is that where you will be, Inquisitor?" Dorian hoped the answer was yes.

Lavellan didn't look up, reaching for Blackwall's well worn waterskin next. It was a miracle it still even held anything.

"No. A small team and I will be going in to stop Commander Clarel."

"I'll be on that team then," Dorian said before his brain could catch up. 

Not like his answer would change. Lavellan walking straight into danger was not a new thing, nor would it ever cease to be a _thing_. Lavellan would never truly be safe and Dorian had long since made peace with that. But the thought of letting him out of his sight was a bit daunting. He'd be the first person behind Lavellan so long as it meant he could at least do his best to protect him. 

The memories of Haven came to his mind unbidden and sent a shudder down his spine.

Lavellan glanced up, frowning. His face was still a splotchy pink from the sun and peeling in odd places as his pale skin refused even slightest tan. It was almost adorable. "Are you sure?"

"Do you not want me to be there with you?"

"I do." Lavellan hesitated, "I feel safer knowing you are around. But it will be dangerous."

"I expect nothing less."

So he had said. It would be another week before they would set out for Adamant fortress, which left Dorian plenty of time to brood on his life choices. Which he did, in a manner that was quieter than some others.

"The Wardens cannot be allowed to do this! This _plan_ of theirs is madness," Solas shouted, sending uncomfortable echoes through the rotunda. Dorian winced. Some were certainly taking the news better than others.

Lavellan's voice was quiet in comparison, although the rotunda had gone completely silent. "The army of demons is my favorite part." Lavellan's snark had Dorian snorting a laugh into his books, only to sneeze when it blew dust into his face.

He missed out on the rest of the conversation as Leliana's birds started their noontime squawking, but by the end of it Lavellan and Solas had moved to the chaise against the wall and were amiably discussing other things in more level tones. For as often as they seemed to disagree (regarding things Dorian assumed they would have agreed _on_ ) they got along rather well.

Suffice to say _everyone_ got along with the Inquisitor rather well. 

Dorian moved away from the bookshelf he had been pretending to inspect while snooping on the two elves below in favor of organizing his workspace with the mechanical efficiency of the mentally preoccupied. They had only been back for a day and already they were thrust into work- at least half of them. He wasn't sure what Varric did for the Inquisition, just that he did whatever it was very well. As for Blackwall, Dorian was convinced all he did was brood. 

Unfortunately for himself, he was one of only two people able to translate Tevinter texts and the only one fluent in the trickier Arcanum. It was good to know he was inherently irreplaceable but the workload was daunting. He hadn't even gotten the documents from the Western Approach yet and his desk was drowning in unfinished text.

Dorian gave up his fruitless attempts at cleaning his desk and moved back towards the rotunda to surreptitiously glance back down at the two elves below. The Inquisitor had left, leaving Solas to his studies and Dorian with a tiny blip of disappointment. 

The next day was as uneventful but just as busy as the last. Hawke and Stroud had arrived in the morning and the date of the march was set. They had four days before the Inquisition would move out, meeting with an Orlesian noble along the way to acquire the heavy siege weaponry, all with the knowledge that something horrible no doubt waited for them when they reached Adamant. 

A scout came by after Dorian's rather late lunch to deliver a sizable stack of papers wrapped in twine and a missive detailing his role in the upcoming battle, accompanying the Inquisitor alongside Varric and Cassandra. That moment was when it truly set in that he was _going to war_ and oh Maker it was actually going to happen-

His spiraling thoughts were interrupted by muffled shouting from outside. Curious, Dorian hazarded a glance out the beveled window of his alcove and was promptly transfixed. The lower courtyard was packed with people, an empty ring in the middle where the unmistakable shape of the Iron Bull was circling a much smaller shape. 

Lavellan, pale and scarred arms on display and completely barefoot, matching the Bull step for step.

Bull was the first to move, ducking down impossibly fast despite his size, going in for a grapple. Lavellan met him with a braced stance, hands grasping his wrists midway and tugging down and to the side. It did nothing to dislodge the Qunari but it gave the elf leverage to twist and go for a chokehold of his own. They were rather evenly matched in strength and cunning, differing only in speed and size. 

He may have watched the two wrestle in the muddy bog that was the lower courtyard for a longer time than necessary or wise. 

Eventually Lavellan was pinned down by the Iron Bull's heavy frame and the crowd went into an uproar. Bull was no doubt lecturing Krem on the techniques but Dorian couldn't take his eyes off Lavellan, sweaty but laughing from his place on the ground. Maker, he was handsome, even while covered in muck. 

The crowd eventually dispersed as Bull helped Lavellan up with a hand and a hearty clap on the shoulder that dislodged a sheet of mud from the elf's back. Dorian still didn't move from the window for a long while after Lavellan parted ways with Bull down below. He managed to sit down with a book but found himself too distracted to accomplish much. 

He hadn't had this much of a problem before, likely due to Lavellan being off limits and the surroundings too dangerous to entertain too many wandering thoughts. But Lavellan had made his interest quite clear and Skyhold was the safest place for them in all of Thedas. He had a lot to catch up on, he supposed.

"Dorian," Lavellan's voice startled him away from his fantasies.

"Inquisitor," he greeted absently, finding himself distracted yet again by Lavellan.

He had seemingly come from a bath, his hair still dripping slightly, high leather boots over his feet, and his clothes mud-free. His cheeks were flushed, from the heat or from all the Qunari wrangling he wasn't sure. Dorian was rather eager to find out which.

"I was hoping to steal a moment alone with you. Unless you are busy, of course."

Dorian shut his book and stood. "Not at all. I know just the place."

Surely none of his meandering daydreams could ever live up to the real, tangible thing before him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man this feels fillery. Sorry bout that but you'll thank me next Saturday when your minds gets blown. 
> 
> ;)


	32. Pleasure on the Ramparts (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aha! It's 10:40 pm therefore it's still a Saturday update.
> 
> Anyway I updated the tags because this is porn.
> 
> Cw: blowjobs, handjobs, the first of many sexual hangups, drinking, and Sera

Dorian led Lavellan through the second floor of the rotunda and out of a side door that opened up to the ramparts. The rooms for some of the Inner Circle were just down the stairs, his at the far end. Dorian turned and took them upwards instead.

There were no patrols this way, given that the staircase led to a storage room still lacking a floor and had little more than a small landing outside the door. This stretch of castle was out of sight, out of mind, and one of the few private places in Skyhold as far as he could tell. It was perfect. 

He'd rather not have Leliana breathing down his neck during what he was about to do.

"Haven't been up here before," Lavellan observed.

"Yes, well, I spent most of the first few days here getting lost." It didn't help that he was a meandering drunk. Dorian casually looked around, making sure they were well away from any prying eyes while Lavellan seemed content to admire the view from up high. 

"I'm not usually allowed to wander," Lavellan said, shooting him a wry smile.

"Oh, I have no doubt. It's a miracle they let you out of sight for more than a few seconds at a time."

Satisfied with his cursory glance around, Dorian crowded Lavellan against the stone wall and stood between his legs. Lavellan's hands grasped at his hips immediately, idly rubbing his fingers over the leather and fustian velvet. He looked up curiously, a question in his eyes and in the downward quirk of his lips.

"Apparently I require constant supervision," Lavellan said instead. "Perhaps they think I'll run off." 

Dorian chuckled and leaned in until their faces were so near he could feel Lavellan's little puffs of breath and could count the constellation of freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones. Lavellan's eyes flickered down to Dorian's lips and then back up before shrugging and closing the distance between their mouths with a chaste kiss that quickly devolved into something much more heated and messy. The elf moved with the same measured thoughtfulness he applied to seemingly every facet of his life, each slide of his tongue coaxing and every nip gentle but intent. It was similar to what they shared in the desert, but this time there was a definitive _purpose_.

"We all know you'd never do such a thing," Dorian managed breathlessly. "They simply wish to keep you away from danger." _Maker_ , he'd never get used to Lavellan's intensity. "And as far from any naughty Tevinter magisters as possible."

"I can think of one naughty Tevinter magister I wouldn't mind being the exception." Lavellan's wry smile bled into a smirk. "You know the one."

"It's Corypheus isn't it?" Dorian pulled back for air, satisfied that at least he wasn't the only one winded.

"It is," Lavellan sighed into Dorian's neck, sending a shudder down his spine. "The way all that red lyrium just… juts out from his body really calls to me," he continued, trailing his hands down towards Dorian's ass and squeezing. 

His sarcasm melted into an approving little hum when Dorian cupped his cheek and took his lips with his own for a few more drawn out kisses. His scar was deliciously rough under the pad of his thumb and Dorian couldn't get enough.

"I can see the appeal. The way his robes dangle in such artful tatters," Dorian jibed, moving to mouth at the raised gash across Lavellan's cheek and then back towards his pointed ear. "It's almost scandalous."

Lavellan laughed but his voice broke into a high pitched moan the second Dorian's lips touched the lobe of his ear, mindful of the tiny metal hoop pierced through it. The elf's hands flew to his shoulder blades and wound tightly into the fabric of his robes. "I- _Dorian-_ "

"I heard ears were a particularly sensitive area for elves, but this is just obscene," Dorian muttered against the soft spot just under Lavellan's ear. 

Lavellan was breathing hard, gasping at the tail end of each utterly sinful little noise. Dorian moved his hand to brush his thumb under and around the other ear while he kept up his ministrations, reveling in the way it had Lavellan wiggling under him. The elf's hips twitched forward, pressing against Dorian's front and _Maker_ he was already hard-

" _Fenhedis,_ Dorian, I didn't-" Lavellan groaned when Dorian moved his thigh up to rub his groin. His words were beginning to clip strangely and Dorian was intrigued. "I didn't come here for a _tease._ "

"Oh?" He pulled back just far enough to let his Inquisitor breathe, but moved his hands lower to grab at Lavellan's ass, pulling him into a slow grind. "What did you come up here for then?"

"Uh," Lavellan's voice was rough and his strange accent intensifying, "I can't recall, but I did see you watching me."

"You two were putting on such a show. How could I resist?" A sudden thought had Dorian pausing the movement of his leg- much to Lavellan's irritation. To all but proposition him in broad daylight so soon after… "Wrestling with the Bull got you all hot and bothered, didn't it?" 

Lavellan hooked his leg around Dorian's knee and pulled their hips flush, bringing them together in a hard grind. He wished he had worn fewer layers, or at least that they were easier to remove, at this rate his robes would be ruined. "Yes," Lavellan breathed in pleased relief. Frowning he corrected himself, "wait, no- it's. I wanted to see you."

Dorian preened, "oh, my dear Inquisitor. I'll give you something to see then." 

He pressed one last quick and rather sloppy kiss to Lavellan's pinked lips before pulling away. Lavellan made a noise somewhere close to a whine, practically pouting until Dorian dropped to his knees and slid the sinful leather leggings down his hips. The whine became a wheeze as Dorian wrapped a hand around the base of his flushed cock and slid his mouth all the way to meet his fingers. Absently he noted the almost complete lack of hair. Lavellan's hands went straight to Dorian's hair, no doubt mussing it up, and a stream of breathless elvhen poured from his lips. Dorian catalogued each one for translation later while setting a steady rhythm with his mouth and hand.

Lavellan, meanwhile, caught his lips in his teeth in a game attempt at being quiet, trembling as he held his hips in check. His self control was truly admirable and Dorian found himself wistful, wishing for a follow-up escapade later in the future where they could both indulge freely.

Being naked would be almost as nice as being indoors.

Instead of thinking of what-ifs, Dorian focused instead on the cock in his mouth. It was far from his first, but the weak little flame in his heart begged for him to treat this one different than the others. It was a feeling he'd had before, an all too familiar thought, an ' _ah, but this one may be special_ ', despite knowing that it would and could never go any farther. He still couldn't help wishing and fearing that Lavellan would be the one to prove him wrong. 

Perhaps he could do some multitasking.

Dorian let himself imagine it, a world where this wouldn't be outlandish, where their positions and origins and legacies wouldn't hold a sword over their heads. He pressed his tongue to the underside of his Inquisitor's cock to thoughts of waking up beside him in the morning with no need to leave. Bobbing his head and working his hand while thinking of idle touches without the fear of discovery and disapproval hanging over him like a cloud. Focusing on Lavellan's trembling fingers pushing his hair from his face and taking all those pesky thoughts of ' _this won't last_ ' far away. Moaning endearments around the heavy length bumping his throat, promising more than just a clandestine fling if only Lavellan would have him again. 

"Dorian," Lavellan gasped, tugging gently but very insistent at his hair. "I'm almost-"

Dorian made no move to pull away, instead he relaxed his throat and took Lavellan all the way to the base. Grasping at Lavellan's hips to guide him into a gentle rock, he let the elf rut into his mouth and waited for reality to crash back in. He didn't have to wait long before Lavellan tensed, threw his head back, and groaned low in his throat as Dorian swallowed him down. It was always better to not to leave any evidence, especially when they would both have to go back into a room full of nosy scouts, spys, and mages. 

Lavellan was breathing hard, his eyes closed as he carded his fingers through Dorian's hair, halfheartedly attempting to smooth it back into order. As nice as it felt, it did little to assuage his disdain for the inevitable ' _this can't happen again'_ about to come _._

It always was his least favorite part.

"Creators, Dorian, you are beautiful." Lavellan ran his thumbs across Dorian's cheeks, looking down at him with so much fond amazement that he had to look away. Of course he wasn't going to make it easy. "Come back up here so I can kiss you."

He obliged, unable to refuse any request from Lavellan and more than eager to stretch this out a little longer. Lavellan ran his hands languidly across Dorian's front, around his sides and up his back, chasing the taste of himself on Dorian's tongue before abruptly flipping them. Lavellan was nuzzling his neck, peppering it with gentle kisses, pinning him with impressive strength.

"Not that I'm not incredibly happy with where this went," Lavellan said in his lilting accent as he nibbled Dorian's collar bones. "But I did come up here with innocent intentions."

"Oh," Dorian said breathlessly. "I certainly tossed those out the window then, didn't I."

Lavellan nodded. "You did. Can I suck your cock now?" 

Dorian just barely managed to suppress the shocked tensing of his muscles at the mere thought of Lavellan _on his knees_ performing such an uncouth action. It was one thing for him. Dorian was used to skirting the edge of incivility and debasement, but he was of a lower standing than Lavellan was. He was the Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, he couldn't- 

Lavellan was looking at him curiously. "You appear to be having a crisis. Baby steps then?"

He brushed Dorian's crotch with his hip in a calculatedly innocent move that had Dorian sucking his teeth. He'd forgotten all about how impossibly hard he still was. Reciprocation was rare and Maker was he going to take whatever Lavellan would give him (within reason, of course). He wasn't quite _that_ desperate yet.

Relenting, he asked, "what kind of baby steps?"

"Let me use my hands."

That sounded reasonable enough. The last time he had been with someone above his station, he had simply been asked to deal with himself while the man, a magister probably long assassinated by now, watched. Lavellan actually touching him intimately was a rather thrilling thought.

"That sounds… if you insist."

"Oh, I very much insist," Lavellan ran his hands across Dorian's hips, brushing the seams along his front with his thumbs. "I've been wanting to get my hands on you for awhile."

"You have?"

"Of course." Lavellan looked up at him with an unbridled fondness, tipping his chin to catch Dorian's lips in a gentle kiss so unlike the previous ones it had his knees weak. It was enough to distract him from Lavellan's quick fingers untying the straps at his shoulder and across his front until they skipped down to the clasped belt above his tented groin. Dorian couldn't help but jolt at the contact. Lavellan simply hummed, pulling him back into the languid kissing and slowing his movements to a crawl, obviously concerned about spooking him.

Dorian couldn't ever recall having a partner so attentive and accommodating. 

Once Lavellan had most of Dorian's shoulders and chest exposed and the clasp of his belt undone he moved down Dorian's throat, leaving a trail of soft kisses down his sternum. For a brief moment he worried Lavellan would go lower, but instead the elf seemed content to suck and bite and kiss, leaving a pattern of marks where they would be easily hidden. It had heat building under his skin- the last and only time this sort of thing happened was during impersonal stays in brothels. Never had a partner done something like this. 

Dorian suspected he'd need to get used to things such as this if Lavellan continued to hold an interest in him. He didn't mind at all.

Lavellan slipped his hand into the front of his fustian trousers and Dorian's mind blanked for a moment. Mercifully he came back to himself in time to stutter out a breathless "don't… not in a way people can see." It wasn't quite what he was going for but it was close enough.

"I understand." Lavellan kissed his jaw and gently tugged until he was turned around and his back pressed against Lavellan's front. 

It was… a strange and oddly compromising position that gave him a clear view of his own leaking cock dribbling onto the stone. Lavellan was a warm presence against his back, leaving kisses against his exposed skin and running his other hand across his chest, blunt nails scratching and Anchor sending static shocks where it touched his skin. Dorian was quite thankful that wasn't the hand lazily stroking his dick but couldn't help his curiosity. _Another time, maybe_.

Lavellan seemed to be more intent on feeling him out rather than actually bringing to orgasm, but it left Dorian pressed against the cold stone within minutes. The elf was relentless with his movements and attention to the point where Dorian was ready to start begging for release. Just as he thought it was getting to be too much of not having enough, Lavellan twisted his wrist with a delicious slide over the crown of his cock that had Dorian arching back. A few more pumps and he was panting into his arms, shuddering as he stared at the puddle of seed between his legs. 

_Maker_ \- Lavellan was going to be the death of him.

Lavellan hummed contentedly into his sweaty shoulder. "I really wanted to suck your dick, but this was nice too." 

Dorian's brain was still trying to catch up. "Maybe another time." He made the mistake of turning right as Lavellan licked his fingers clean of a few errant drops and promptly lost his reason again.

Lavellan looked entirely too pleased, fingers lingering while tugging and tying all of Dorian's belts and robes back into place. He did just as much groping as he did smoothing the rumpled edges of velvet and twisted leather. Dorian attempted to reciprocate as best as he could.

"Come have drinks with me tonight," Lavellan said, not quite looking up at Dorian's face as he straightened out his collar for the third time.

"At the Herald's Rest?"

"Yes, I thought maybe we could relax and talk a bit."

Dorian stared. "This is what you were trying to do before." He wasn't propositioning him for a quick fondle, he was actually wanting to _talk_ \- without the entire Inquisition spy network possibly overhearing.

"Yes. But I'm really not complaining," Lavellan added quickly.

"Right," Dorian looked away, suddenly feeling a bit flustered. "I'd love to join you."

Lavellan had apparently been gifted a small cask of West Hill Brandy that needed breaking in before Sera discovered it. Unfortunately, by the time they made it to the bar Cabot was already shooing her away with a broom, but there was enough left to get in several shots each. They chatted amiably between sips; critiquing the outfits of various patrons, discussing the absurdity of Orlesian politics, and sharing their favorite passages from the most recent Randy Dowager Quarterly. By the time Bull and his Chargers arrived, Dorian had a warm tingly buzz in his belly and Lavellan's cheeks were flushed a rosy pink. He hadn't stopped smiling for well over five minutes and Dorian hadn't been able to look away once.

Lavellan asked Cabot to break out the Dragon Piss, much to Bull's delight and Cabot's long suffering sigh, and the night spiraled from there. The Chargers were loud and rowdy, Bull was louder and rowdier, Sera was chaos incarnate, and Lavellan was nothing short of sacrilegious. His usually smooth tenor was starting to lower, his words slurring and clipping again in that unrecognizable accent as he chatted and joked. It wasn't until Dorian overheard the Dalish elf in the Chargers, helpfully named Dalish, speak that he figured out what it was and ended up giggling uncontrollably for several minutes.

He and Lavellan were swaying on their feet by the time they left, Cabot tersely shoving them out into the brisk air.

"Join me again sometime," Lavellan said at the same time Dorian blurted, "let's drink together again."

The alcohol had them breaking into a fit of laughter as they helped each other up the stairs, ending only when they had to part ways for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaaay first porn for the fandom and also this fic and it only took 30 chapters to get there


	33. The Scholars of Tevinter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday in two days so I'm posting this chapter early as a treat for both me and y'all
> 
> Cw: canon typical horrible stuff; talk of human sacrifice and slavery, bloodletting, murder, anatomical descriptions, and corpse desecration
> 
> Spoilers for Oculara

Dorian woke up late the next morning feeling like something died in his mouth and with a splitting headache that had him swearing off alcohol for good. Something he promised every time this happened, but had never followed through with. This time would be different, he was sure.

After rolling out of bed and fumbling out of his smallclothes, Dorian took one look at himself and decided to forgo his usual bath in favor of wiping himself clean in the privacy of his room. It gave him plenty of time to admire the many kiss marks littering his front in a mix of horror and pleasure. It was tangible proof of his dalliance with the Inquisitor, and only served as kindling for his wistful longing for something more substantial. 

But that would all be up to Lavellan.

Presentable as he could be in spite of his killer hangover, Dorian made his way to grab a very late breakfast. Except most of the tables had been removed, namely the ones closest to the frankly terrifying looking throne. Curious, but unwilling to linger, he gulped down several cups of water and stole a few slices of buttered bread before heading into the rotunda.

Solas was methodically smoothing a brush over the pristine walls of the lower level, priming the surface for the next part of the Inquisition's story. He never looked away from his work, even as Dorian lingered and left a trail of bread crumbs across his floor. The murals he had completed so far were beautiful, in a calamitous and macabre way, and a third of the wall was already covered. He often wondered if Solas made up these images ahead of time. If it was foresight granted from his time in the Fade, or his mysterious apostate powers, or if he was just making it up as they went. Hopefully he had enough room for the whole story. Regardless, he felt there was a severe overabundance of wolves and eyes to really suit his artistic tastes. Perhaps Lavellan enjoyed it.

Dorian's desk was the same as he had left it yesterday, in all its chaotic glory, and glumly he noted that his stack of unfinished work was much taller than his pile of finished work. In fact, it looked like somebody had been adding to the already precarious tower in his absence. But it was far from the only addition and certainly not the one that held his attention. There was a plate of honey cakes left on the only clear patch of his desk with a note beside it, ' _For your hangover,_ ' with a messy red sigil for a signature.

Dorian stared at the note, then the cakes, then back to the note again. 

The most obvious culprit was Lavellan; which solved the question of _who_ but left the _why_. He was aware of the Inquisitor's disgustingly gracious habits of gifting those around him with treats and trinkets. The alcohol and fruit and a certain gaudy mabari statue all were testament to the fact. But this...

This was different.

It was expected, in a way, since the upper echelons of Tevinter society would often gift those they favored with such things. Mistresses, dancers, escorts, and even favorite prostitutes would receive all sorts of luxuries- for as long as they held said favor, of course. Never would those gifts have a _signature_. The entire point was to leave things untraceable, hidden away so nothing could be used against you by your enemies. Leaving a signature so nonchalantly, so _publicly_ , on what was clearly gift- 

It was so scandalous it had Dorian's face flushing. 

He really needed to have a chat with Lavellan about subtlety and sooner rather than later. He huffed, imagining how well _that_ would go. Of course, he had a few more pressing matters to attend to, and no doubt Lavellan was too busy to indulge in some cultural exchange that would likely make him frown like a wounded Mabari anyway. The conversation about discretion could certainly wait a little longer.

Instead, there was the tettering pile of nefarious papers to deal with. 

Most of what was at the top appeared to be hastily scrawled notes recovered from intercepted Venatori scouts and agents throughout the Approach. They didn't hold anything more than scathing remarks about their overseer and the locale but Dorian translated them anyway and set them in a stack for Leliana. She'd get to decide if they had anything of merit- and knowing her, they were of extreme importance. 

The next was a well preserved tome of Draconology- which had Dorian gaping stupidly. It was ancient and thorough and _hand illustrated_ and had somehow been found in the rubble of a decrepit Pre-Blight research outpost in the middle of a blasted desert _intact_. A strangled noise crept out of his throat as he trailed his fingers over delicately inked scales on yellowed vellum sheets. This was a _treasure,_ priceless and irreplaceable, and not even the odd look he recieved from Fiona could dampen his enthusiasm. He placed the book delicately off to the side, next to the several dozen other books he needed to translate and transcribe later.

Under the book were several folded maps of the Approach and one of the Hissing Wastes. All were marked here and there with symbols, a few odd notes in the margins or off to the side of known landmarks, and one had a circle over a water source with 'Varghests' beside it, underlined twice. The symbols were recognizable only because he had seen plenty of old maps back in his Circle days as he trawled the libraries instead of studying. The map legends of ancient Tevinter were different than the ones used in the present, so it made sense for the Venatori to use the old ones given how desperately they clung to the past. Dorian made quick work of the translations and set them on the stack to send Leliana's way.

The rest of the still formidable pile looked to be entirely from the outpost. Research notes and correspondence from the Venatori intermingled with deteriorating tomes and scrolls and yellowed bits of weathered parchment from the previous occupants all in a morally unsound clutter that left his desk a little sandy. Steeling his nerves, Dorian neatly sorted out new from old before getting started with the ancient work.

Most of it predated the first Blight, in both language used and subject matter, and was in poor shape. Large amounts of text had been wiped away by time and the harsh desert environment, one scroll disintegrated into dust as soon as it was unrolled, but there was enough still legible to paint a vivid enough picture as to what those ancient scholars were up to. 

The answer was nothing good.

He could easily sort the still readable documents into three piles after a cursory glance; one for blood magic, one for human (but really mostly Elvhen) sacrifice, and one for gossip. Unfortunately, the gossip pile was much, _much_ smaller than the other two. It did not bode well for his enjoyment of this task.

The blood magic stack consisted of two tomes, a scroll, and several loose scraps from other sources, as well as a piecemealed diary. The first tome was an anatomy manual, with helpful instructions on proper ways to bloodlet as well as some truly detailed anatomy illustrations. Dorian accidentally flipped to a page with a bisected Elvhen man and closed the book with a reverberating snap that sent a cloud of dust mushrooming into the air. He set the book far off to the side. If the healers couldn't glean anything good from it, he'd find a loose floorboard to stick it in and forget about. 

The second tome was much more innocuous at first, dealing predominantly with the summoning and binding of demons using blood, both willing and unwillingly given. Large swathes of the text were blurred by damage or dried brown stains, but portions already had scrawling translation notes under the words. Given the current situation involving the Wardens, Dorian was unsurprised. He set this one aside for Solas to slog through. 

The scroll read similarly to the second tome, but with far less marginalia, so he hesitantly added it to his section of longer term projects. After that, all that was left of the blood magic pile were the notes and faded diary. 

The notes didn't quite hold his attention, but they referred to the owner of the diary quite frequently. They also used the terms "madman", "lunatic", and "insane" quite liberally when referencing him. Skimming through the diary, the reasons for that became quite clear, and had him sifting through the sacrificial ritual pile for more context. 

Dorian had assumed rightly that the research going on at the outpost was nothing good. He had also assumed it was the standard Tevinter affair; demon summoning, binding spirits to various things and sometimes people, creating spells of chaos and death that doubled as spells to open particularly stuck jar lids, the usual mix of morally bad ideas. He had also been far too naive. 

The author of the diary (and some of the field notes in his other pile of evil) was a magister either exiled or shunned by his countrymen sometime shortly after or during the first Blight, who had then turned to the scientific study of magic. Predominantly Fade manipulations. His diary was a hodgepodge of field notes, calculations, day to day activities, and addled musings that led him to think about messing around with time and space and using dark, visceral magic to fuel it. The formulas were similar to Dorian's as if he were looking at them through a fuzzy lens. Less hypothetical and more concrete, theories put into practice. Instead of using precise, controlled power, it supplemented with the magic of blood, the magic of dragons and herbs, and the magic of people. It was still too close to his own misguided work with Alexius.

It made his stomach curdle.

The magister had developed a method to bend the Fade in such a way that they could potentially change the course of time. He acknowledged that there were many timelines at work, but theorized that, given enough power, one could push one timeline off its webbing track and onto another. The only problem the magister foresaw was getting the amount of power needed in the first place. Dorian would argue that _that_ was far from the only problem but read on.

The magister tried everything to no avail; blood wasn't enough ' _even when let by a score of hale Elvhen slaves_ ', the high Dragon blood had coagulated too quickly with the addition of felandaris and had ' _burned away in such close proximity to the Fade that it left nothing to show for the effort'_. The last attempt was made using a focus made from ' _the skull of a former mage branded by pure lyrium, potent with magic no longer directed_ '. 

Dorian stared at the passage without seeing. 

_A Tranquil._

That staff they found in the ruins.

There were notes elsewhere regarding the magical properties of their blood, bones, livers. How one could augment them using demonic possession to see hidden things or create keystones and enchantments. Dorian knew without even looking at the Venatori documents that they had read through the same passages as him and developed their own twisted creations. _The oculara._

The rest of the story was a blur and Dorian easily filled in the gaps. The staff, ' _Tempest_ ', the magister had called it, was powerful enough to distort the Fade and begin to shift time- but to nobody's surprise it tore a hole in the Fade instead. Not knowing what else he could do, he had used his own blood and the power of Tempest to freeze the tear, locking them all in a stasis, praying it would somehow repair itself. 

Like a true Tevinter scholar, he wrote down every step with methodical precision and a steady hand even as the world burned around him.

And like true Tevinter mages, the Venatori no doubt took this not as a cautionary tale but as an opportunity for improvement. They had dealt with the aftermath after all- of someone dispeling the magic holding the stasis, and then having to hastily put it back in place because the magic used to close such tears in the Fade belonged to one person.

One person who, if they caught sight of _any_ of this would likely think twice about keeping company with someone from Tevinter.

One person who needed to know about the Oculara, now that they had the full picture of what they really were and how they were made, and about the foul staff locked in his armory, and how this won't be the last stupid mess his countrymen would make with forces and objects they didn't understand.

He'd give his full report later, but for now, he just wanted to tell Lavellan first. 

It was late afternoon, he'd be out of the war room and likely wandering the grounds at this time, left to his own devices until his routine cup of tea with Leliana upstairs. Dorian stumbled from his desk to go searching, mind whirling with knowledge of things he truly did not ever wish to know and a desperation for absolution. Horrible secrets that would sow chaos if spilled were bubbling like poison in his mind. He felt oddly responsible for the horrors his countrymen wrought most days, in an abstract way, but not quite to this degree.

Could he have become that crazed magister under different conditions? 

The thought had him trembling slightly as he grasped the handle to enter the throne room- and unknowingly into a judgment trial.

"There are the charges, Inquisitor. Do you have anything to say in your defense, Gereon Alexius?" Josephine Montilyet's voice echoed through the hushed hall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Dorian can't catch a break


	34. Judgment of the Magister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howdy everyone. 
> 
> Somehow I managed to get this chapter done at a reasonable time between all the Animal Crossing and Frostpunk I've been playing.
> 
> Continuing spoiler warning for oculara

Distantly, Dorian registered his former mentor talking. His voice, gravelly from disuse and madness, carried through the quiet hall and over the hushed whispers of the assembled nobles and peasants watching the spectacle with rapt attention. His tone was nothing short of vitriolic as he tore into the Inquisitor with the blind fervor of the devout, uselessly invoking the threat of Corypheus with every breath. He didn't actually hear any of it over the pounding in his ears, but the gist was easy enough to grasp.

Nobody had seemed to notice him slipping into the hall, too fixated on the trial. Too busy watching a disgraced Tevinter magister spit curses at Lavellan, sitting impassively on the Inquisitor's throne, his face an unreadable mask. 

"Gereon Alexius. The charges you have been leveled with are grave," Lavellan interrupted, toneless but authoritative. The hall fell dead silent as soon as he opened his mouth. "You had promised the mages your assistance, but then lied and hid your true intentions." The elf settled back further on his throne, letting the pause hang over the tension clogging the air.

"Your sentence then, is to do as you had promised. I sentence you, Gereon Alexius, to serve the mages. Your knowledge, your coin, your connections- as shattered as they may be- all of it will go to the mages. Their cause is now your cause, their fight is now your fight. You will be in their service."

The hall erupted in an uproar. Protests over the leniency shown, cries for blood and more visceral reparations, and terrified speculations over a Tevinter cultist teaching the impressionable mages his ways all mixing together until Lavellan stood up, his presence silencing the room. 

"A headsman would've been kinder," Dorian heard Alexius sneer. His eyes were locked on Lavellan, same as everyone else.

"No," the elf replied, tone pitiless and flat. "It would've been easier."

The fervor began to pick up again, and Lavellan turned to leave, ignoring the worried looks between his cabinet members and scathing comments from the assembled nobles. "Think of this as a way to honor your son's memory," he said, his voice drowning over the noise, before he slipped away to the Undercroft.

Alexius hung his head, resigning himself as he was led away from the hall by a consort of Templars. He didn't look up, a small mercy as Dorian was unsure of what he'd see in his former mentor. He hadn't visited him once and the last words he had shared with the man were less than pleasant. At least now he had more time to think of something to say, _after_ he worked up the courage to actually meet with him of course.

Dorian watched him go from his shadowy spot beside the rotunda entrance, grateful for Lavellan's mercy but torn with guilt all the same. He doubted Lavellan was thinking of him specifically during the judgment, but it was still a nagging fear mixed in with the horrors he had just uncovered. If Lavellan had learned what sort of madness the Venatori, Tevinter magisters, people like Alexius (like _him_ )- if he saw what they were capable of doing, would it have changed his mind? Had Dorian influenced his decisions? The guilt clawed at him. 

It was seeming to be a common occurrence these days. 

Dorian swallowed down the lump in his throat and turned back towards the rotunda only to freeze. Most of the hall was a blurred mass of people, but across the way was a woefully familiar red and white vestment. Mother Giselle met his eyes with a wrathful look that had his insides shriveling up like a flower in a drought. No doubt she saw collusion, clear as day. She already suspected him of manipulating the Inquisitor, and now she had what might as well be proof. 

Dorian went back into the rotunda before a mob could be hastily assembled, and sped by Solas on his way back up the stairs towards the sanctity of his alcove. It was arguably a silly place to find safety and comfort, given it was a major source of his existential crises at the moment and smelled strongly of the rookery above and paint below. But he had always found refuge within the confines of sturdy walls lined with sturdier shelves stacked with books, history, _knowledge_ and the weight that came with it all. 

Felix had laughed when he mentioned the feeling and told him he sounded like the human embodiment of a Qarinus shelled crab. He had been to the beaches and tide pools around his home city more times than he could count, as it was a favored play area when he was a child, despite his unease with the water. He had found one of those crabs while exploring the shores, and marveled at its borrowed shell- until it pinched his thumb. It hadn't hurt, instead it made it easier to draw out of its little home, revealing all its softer, vulnerable parts it kept hidden away. 

He never did appreciate the comparison.

"How _dare_ you," Mother Giselle's deeply accented voice hissed from the entrance of his alcove.

Dorian didn't bother turning to look. "And what have I dared to do?"

"You know exactly what I am referring to," she snapped. "What do you think you are doing?" Her words were dripping with so much disdain, he was likely to step in a puddle of it.

He did not want to deal with this. Certainly not right now. "Nothing currently, but evidently I _am_ being clucked at by a hen."

"Don't play the fool with me, young man-"

"I can play a more convincing fool, I assure you." 

Truthfully, he did know what she was accusing him of, it was the same thing he was accusing himself of, but he'd be damned before he caved. She was hardly the first religious authority to try and box him up.

She tsked scornfully. "Your glib tongue gets you no credit."

"Actually, Mother Giselle, you'd be surprised at the credit my tongue _does_ get me-"

"Am I interrupting something," Lavellan interrupted.

Dorian hadn't even heard him approach, and judging from the surprised look on Mother Giselle's face, she hadn't either. She was quick to school her features. 

"Not at all. Mother Giselle was just concerned about my _undue_ influence over you." In far more words and accusations than that.

"My Inquisitor, surely you must see the issue at having him by your side," Mother Giselle pleaded in that falsely imploring tone of hers. Lavellan hummed a little understanding noise that would've sounded condescending coming from anyone else. It simply sounded mysterious and a little uninterested coming from him. "The rumors alone-"

"Oh, rumors?" Lavellan tipped his head, eyes gleaming. "What rumors?"

Mother Giselle looked taken aback. She carefully worked her next words, haltingly replying with "I could not bear to repeat them."

It was the wrong thing to say, judging by her wince and Lavellan's eyes sharpening. "You couldn't bear to repeat them… but you have before?"

The brief grimace twisting Mother Giselle's face was telling enough- her hand in working the rumor mill had been caught and exposed, even if it was just for a glimpse. Lavellan looked completely unsurprised.

"Your worship-" Lavellan frowned. "I meant no disrespect, if you truly do not doubt this man's intentions..." Mother Giselle attempted before deciding it would be best if she just left.

Dorian quietly watched her leave, arms crossed over his chest simply to keep from fidgeting. Lavellan scrubbed a slim hand through his fiery hair with a huff, eyes following after her until flickering his way. 

"Well." Lavellan arched an eyebrow at him and Dorian glanced away awkwardly. "That was something."

"It was."

Dorian paused, the silence heavy and full of chittering crows and murmuring people. Lavellan hadn't looked away or decided to say anything else yet, leaving him to fill the space. 

"Is my influence over you… undue?" He had gone for teasing and unruffled but the words fell somewhere closer to uncertain and thoroughly ruffled. Hopefully he didn't sound as desperate as he felt.

Lavellan shot him a fond smile. It was the kind that made his chest feel all mushy. "Not at all." 

A dangerous thing when combined with such an easy absolution. It made him feel bolder.

"Perhaps, overdue?" Lavellan laughed and Dorian felt a tug at his lips. "I tease you too much, I know." _Among other things._

"It's well deserved and quite enjoyable." Lavellan winked and shot him one last heart melting smile before his face grew serious. Dorian wanted to sigh, _of course_ he'd want to talk about what just happened. "Mother Giselle… her words didn't get to you, did they?"

"Hardly," Dorian rolled his eyes. The accusations had been cutting but nothing new or particularly damning. It should have made him feel more at home, if anything. 

Lavellan nodded. "She means well, I think." His eyes trailed somewhere far off to the side of Dorian's shoulder before he continued quieter, "a half a year ago, she may have had a point."

"About being influenced by others?"

"I wasn't as sure of myself," he replied with a nod. "I didn't really have a 'self' to be sure _of_."

He had mentioned not having any memories of himself, but the way he spoke made it sound as if it went a little deeper.

"And now?"

"Now I am quite sure."

Lavellan's smile was fond and so very easy to return, loosening the vice of guilt around his chest incrementally. "I do wish she had actually repeated some of those rumors, though. It's been awhile since I heard any fun ones."

"Something tells me this isn't the first time you've had to chastise a few wagging tongues."

"Once or twice. Josephine dealt with it for me mostly." He settled on top of Dorian's desk as if it were a chair- which to him it might as well be. His lovely ass was awfully close to the stack of horrible things Dorian had read through this morning. The unintentional juxtaposition was jarring. "I don't know who has the stranger concept of the Dalish, the Orlesians or the Fereldans."

"I'd wager the Orlesians," Dorian joked half heartedly, settling down into his rickety armchair. He loved gossipy talk like this, especially from Lavellan, but his eyes kept flicking to the stack of text beside Lavellan's thigh.

"They did seem awfully convinced that I would start stealing their wives and children away."

"Would you?"

Lavellan grinned, "the wives certainly."

Dorian chuckled, "they say the same about Tevinters. Only we steal them for blood magic." The joke fell a little flat given the evidence for just that next to someone whose people had suffered the hardest because of his people's excess.

"Of course." Lavellan seemed to catch on to where Dorian's eyes kept flickering, noting the stack of papers and tomes beside his leg. "These are from the Western Approach." 

"All the text I was given to translate. I finished reading through it all not long ago." Dorian couldn't meet Lavellan's eyes and couldn't bear to look at the cursed work on his table so he fixated on Lavellan's thighs instead. He had them in his hands just yesterday, for all of a few minutes, but he could recall the warmth through skin heated leather. 

It wasn't quite enough of a distraction from his current discomfort as he had hoped.

He could still feel Lavellan's eyes on him. "Find anything interesting?"

Oh, what an understatement- "there were a few things of note." Dorian paused for a deep breath. Lavellan would find out eventually, either from him or from a summary he'd write for Leliana and Cullen, and he would _much_ prefer he hear it from him. As horribly uncomfortable as it made him. "I was meaning to find you- to tell you about it. If you have time."

He'd rather be uncomfortable with Lavellan- with his soft looks and gentle pushes and thoughtful words. 

"I have the time." 

Dorian nodded and stood, thankful Lavellan got the hint and led him out of the too crowded rotunda and onto the ramparts, towards one of the crumbling parapet towers. The roof was nonexistent and one of the walls was caved in, and it reeked of mold and dust. With one look from Lavellan, the watchmen gave the doors a wide berth. 

Alone and away from prying eyes and inquisitive ears, Dorian recounted everything he unearthed in the documents from the research outpost. The rituals, the experimentation, the blood and death, each bad decision made by his people past and present, laid out for Lavellan to pick apart. The keystones made from dark enchantments, the oculara created from possessed Tranquil- he left nothing out and Lavellan offered only a few quiet prompts to continue until there was nothing left to say. The weighty sins of his countrymen seemed to lift from his shoulders, if only to hang above him as he waited for Lavellan's judgement.

It was a lot to take in, but if Lavellan was surprised or shocked he didn't show it. Dorian absently fiddled with the edges of his robes, surreptitiously watching Lavellan. He had been staring out at the Frostbacks through the collapsed wall long enough to have gone snowblind, unmoving and face settled into a tired frown. To anyone else, he looked like he hadn't heard a word said, but Dorian knew he was more than just lost in thought. He was cataloging and scheming away, preparing for a future to prevent the past, Dorian only needed to wait.

"I can't say I'm surprised about the origins of the oculara," Lavellan said at last. "The hints were there, though… the Inquisition should have offered protection to the Tranquil, before so many were taken."

"The arl of Redcliffe will need to know."

Lavellan nodded, "I'll have Vivienne and Fiona work on contacting the remaining Tranquil population. The mention of using… the bodies of the Tranquil for magic rituals concerns me."

"They put an alarming amount of thought and research into it." Dorian shuddered. "Such knowledge is dangerous and deadly."

"We will need to keep what you found safeguarded." Lavellan scratched his fingers through the short fuzz on the back of his skull, murmuring, "but what is to stop others from doing as the ancients did and researching of their own volition?"

"If there is a question with no answer, you can be assured a scholar will attempt to find one," Dorian recited. It was a line Alexius favored, ever the avid researcher. 

Lavellan hummed thoughtfully. "And if the question has an answer already? Will they try to find another answer?"

Dorian paused, mulling Lavellan's words carefully. "The question certainly won't be as alluring. There may be some who will see if anything had been missed, who will try to find a truth of their own. But if the answer is known, well-known and accepted as fact…"

"It can be a deterrent. A deflection." Lavellan nodded, a determined glint in his eyes and set in his shoulders. "I'll bring it up with Leliana. Hopefully this will all stem the tide of oculara and protect the Tranquil from unsavory intentions. As for the Rite itself…" He finally turned to look at Dorian. "Perhaps this will also bring an end to the Rite of Tranquility."

Dorian frowned. "How so?"

"The purpose of the Rite is to prevent the demonic possession of weak-willed mages. But Tranquil can still be possessed- it's how they make these oculara. The sole justifiable reason for the Rite is a moot point."

"So you wish to tell people that Tranquil can still be possessed in the hopes they stop the Rite? That's awfully optimistic of you."

Lavellan chuckled mirthlessly. "I have no doubt that the Chantry and the Templars will still demand the Rite performed on any mage they get their hands on. But take away the illusion of safety, and people will have no choice but to confront the barbarism of the Rite. It would be harder to justify its use."

"Taking away the safety net before you have another in place may only cause more problems. If they think there are no other ways to keep mages from being possessed, they may look to more grisly methods," Dorian countered.

Lavellan hummed, then conceded with a sigh, "that's a fair point." He turned back to the Frostbacks with a frown. "There must be a better system," he murmured. 

"We'll find one, or at least we'll lay the groundwork," Dorian reassured, as empty as it felt coming from his lips. Lavellan nodded but didn't reply.

They sat in silence for a little while longer, the sun dipping across the mountain slopes and casting long shadows through the gaps in the stonework. The heavy fog of secrets and guilt and responsibility was thick and smothering between them, displacing the air.

"The ancient time magic you found-" Dorian winced, "-you said it was similar to the kind you developed with Alexius."

"Roughly. The- the calculations were roughly the same. But the premise and methods differed. My magic used significantly less blood- and was strictly hypothetical." Dorian faltered, "at least until it was actually used…"

Lavellan turned to look back towards him, face inscrutable. Dorian withered. 

"There's no shame in asking 'what if', Dorian."

"There is if it leads to death and destruction," he grumbled.

"There really isn't. It's what you choose to _do_ with that 'what if'. It was careless of you to share such a dangerous magic. I've seen what you can do, Dorian. You don't do things halfway. That hypothetical ritual you created would have worked perfectly if it had been followed correctly." 

Lavellan settled onto a water-warped crate that creaked ominously under his weight. For as admonishing as his words were, he spoke in such a gentle and fond tone that it had Dorian's stomach in knots and his brain a confused mess. Was he being scolded? Praised? Both?

"What others choose to do with your work is not your fault. Your curiosity and wonder is a gift- and also _very_ attractive."

Both. And now he was flirting too-

"That all hardly changes the fact that I was very nearly responsible for calamity on the highest level."

Lavellan chuckled, "your magic did very nearly doom the world. But it didn't and now you are helping make sure it never does."

Dorian scowled, "I suppose. I fear as though my intentions don't change much."

"Actually, da'lath'in, your intentions change everything." Lavellan smiled softly. "You want to change things for the better, and I've already seen you change yourself."

"Perhaps there's hope for me yet." Lavellan laughed and Dorian gave him a tentative smile in return, the vise around his heart loosening. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next stop: Adamant.
> 
> Da'lath'in courtesy of the Elvhen Lexicon 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883/chapters/8162043


	35. Adamant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Omg. It's so late ;_;
> 
> Edit 5/8/20: in what will probably become a running theme, the next few chapters will be late. I'm not fond of unfinished fics, and I endeavor to not leave any unfinished works of my own, so this work is certainly not being abandoned. Updates are just gonna get a lil slower is all ;_; thanks for bearing with me!

The road to Adamant Fortress was a ragged and hectic stretch culminating in a week long march at a pace as blistering as the sun overhead. The Inquisition was off to war, picking up siege machinery and troops along the way, desperately trying to outrun a ritual already in the works. Time was a blur of harsh riding, hurried camping, fitful sleeping, and then waking up far too soon to do it all over again. 

Dorian would have been feeling the anxiety of _marching off to_ _war_ if only he didn't feel so utterly exhausted.

Worse still was how little he actually saw of Lavellan. He was directing the whirlwind from it's epicenter, leaving little time to do anything else and too busy to stay in one place for more than a few moments. It was a strange situation- Lavellan had always been accessible, more or less. Most of his work was done around others, leaving only a few spots where he could be while sequestered away in his wintry castle.

If he wasn't out wandering the grounds of Skyhold, working, or visiting people, there were half a dozen ravens trained to seek him out to deliver messages. Now it was like trying to find an elf-shaped needle in a haystack. 

The rest of the Inner Circle wasn't faring much better with his pseudo-absence.

"I got a nod and a two smiles from afar today," Varric announced. "Putting me at the top of the leaderboard."

"Where does a wave and a 'good morning' get you? I received both, so you know." Dorian also got a knowing wink when the commander looked away, and while he imagined that would rank quite highly in their little game, he'd rather keep it to himself. Even though it would no doubt slim the gap between their points quite nicely.

"Ha! Lower than horse droppings, both of you," Sera cackled. "Inqy threw a sweet bread at me," she proudly proclaimed.

Varric and Dorian groaned, both agreeing without words that Sera did have them beat. 

Blackwall asked mockingly if she ate it too, to which she looked at him incredulously and replied "yeah? Duh." 

Varric and Dorian groaned again while Cassandra and Vivienne both shared looks of disgust.

Such moments of camaraderie became fewer and farther between as the terrain turned from prairie to sandy desert. Adamant fortress was a looming behemoth on the horizon, a mountain of stone and history in the distance towering above the rolling dunes around it. Dorian had to admit it was impressive. High, unscalable walls lined with spiked plates and imposing dusty griffon emblazoned sentry turrets, ditches and trenches in a labyrinth along the outer walls and sloping down towards the abyss behind the fortress. It was awe-inspiring from a distance, but up on the hillock across its massive wood and volcanic aurum gates, it was daunting.

The darkspawn had never managed to breach its walls, but they never had siege ladders, trebuchets, battering rams, or Inquisitor Lavellan. Surely all that would count for something. 

"I was looking for you," Lavellan's soft voice floated from behind him.

Dorian managed to pry his eyes away from the smooth polished walls of Adamant to turn and face the Inquisitor properly. The camp was in a fervour all around the raised dune they stood on, and yet it was a low murmur in the background, muted outside the little bubble they always seemed to make for themselves. Supplies were being moved, scouts and soldiers drinking and partying before the war came with the dawn. Maker only knew who would make it through this impossible siege.

"Were you really?" Dorian tried not to look too outwardly pleased at the thought of Lavellan slipping away from his duties to come see him. 

Lavellan smiled, warm and dimpling his cheeks. "It's strange to say I missed you, but it has been a week since I've seen you."

"Nonsense, my dear Inquisitor. You've seen me plenty." Dorian winked, closing the distance between them if only so he wasn't the only one on the crest of the dune. Even standing straight as an arrow, he was still shorter than Dorian and the terrain height wasn't helping. "Don't think I haven't been catching you staring my way."

"I didn't think you had noticed."

His gauntleted fingers twitched at his side as if he wished to reach out but no doubt there were people watching. The Inquisitor commanded respect and attention with his presence, but the evil magister was in need of constant supervision in case he finally revealed his true intentions. There would be no privacy for them, not here. Maybe not anywhere.

"Besides, I wanted to speak with you," Lavellan added.

Dorian moved a few steps closer, until they were close enough to touch. Lavellan's burnished armor gleamed in the firelight, his hair blazing orange and curling slightly. His impossibly pale skin shone from all the sweat of the trek and oil to keep from burning in the sun. He had requisitioned new armor and weapons for himself and everyone else in his Inner Circle, and his once plain platemail was now a whirl of leather and embossed metal. Inquisition eyes and swords and fire blended with images of birds and plants forming a barely distinguishable miasma in the flickering light. He cut a rather striking figure, regal and wild.

"What did you wish to talk about?" Dorian asked. 

Lavellan's eyes flickered downwards, appraising the lustrous cotton and quillback leather robes Dorian had been given. He looked more than a little pleased. "I hadn't gotten a chance to really see what Dagna had made for you," Lavellan said, not exactly answering the question. "Do you like it?"

To be honest, he hadn't really thought much about the armors and weapons he was given by the quartermaster. "It's no Tevinter battlemage robe, but I make it work," he replied with another wink. 

"You certainly do," Lavellan mused, unabashedly giving him another once over only with far more heat behind it. "I wish I had more velvet…"

"Now now, Inquisitor, not in front of the men," Dorian chided with just a hint of seriousness. "I don't think you came to find me just to talk about fashion, not really."

Lavellan grinned, but easily admitted with a shrug. "Not entirely, no. Though I imagine you have plenty of thoughts on the matter."

"I do. Stormheart has such an unfetching tone."

"It is a rather unflattering shade of sick. All of these pretty designs are going to be a pain to clean too," the elf nodded, serious tone at odds with the mischievous grin still gracing his lips. 

"I'm just thankful there isn't any plaideweave involved," Dorian quipped. Lavellan chuckled and ducked his head. "So tell me, Lavellan, what did you wish to speak about, really?"

"I suppose it was more of an… invitation." Lavellan didn't look up, tugging at the edges of his heavy gauntlets, eyes hidden. "We march at dawn, so it wouldn't be much time," Lavellan's voice was steady but shy and Dorian subconsciously leaned forward, hanging on each word. "But I thought, tonight perhaps we could-" 

An abrupt shout had them both jumping apart with surprise, Sera rushing towards them with the Iron Bull and Krem in tow. "Told you they'd be here," Sera said more to the mercenaries.

"Yeah, no surprises here," Bull muttered.

"What's going on?" If Lavellan was upset by the interruption it didn't show. Dorian was torn between a few emotions- if wanting to throttle his companions counted as one.

"Everyone is getting together for a bit of a pre-war party and we were missing some people. We couldn't break out the casks without you, Boss." Iron Bull glanced between them and smirked, "hope we weren't interrupting."

"Not at all," Dorian muttered as Lavellan shook his head and smiled. "Lead the way."

Except it became very clear that they didn't exactly need leading- not with how loud the Inquisition 'pre-war party' was. Everyone in the Inner Circle and beyond was gathered around a series of long wooden tables cobbled together from wagon planks and supply crates. Stools, stumps, and chests were scrunched together in some attempt at seating, all crammed to the side of a warm bonfire. The Chargers were surrounding a series of casks, and immediately cheered upon seeing the return of their captain and lieutenant.

"The Inquisitor is here boys! Break 'em open!" 

Everyone else cheered heartily, Lavellan laughing as he found a seat on a sandy rock between a starry eyed Scout Harding and a quietly pleased Cassandra. Somehow Dorian was pulled down next to him and Cassandra and a mug of conscription ale was pushed into his hands. Stroud sat across from them and eagerly chatted with Lavellan as Bull took a hesitant seat on a nearby crate. It groaned ominously under his weight. Varric, Hawke, Josephine, a blushing Blackwall, and Charter were all locked in a vicious game of Wicked Grace. Cole was sitting on table, plucking the strings of a battered lute while a few soldiers and scouts and Chargers were dancing and sloshing ale. Vivienne and Leliana were to the side laughing to themselves as Solas looked on from the other corner. 

It was loud with raucous laughter, discordant song and dance, and so much talking and movement. They were so packed together that his elbows kept brushing Lavellan's arms and sides and his knees kept knocking into Cassandra's. The conscription ale burned like Blight and tasted like regret and rotten hops, but he found he didn't mind the taste. Not when it was shared with so many others. 

They were still a good distance from Adamant but the sounds of their revelry likely reached the desert fortress. It should have been concerning, but Dorian found it hard to think about what would come in the morning. Not with Varric's laughter, Cassandra's quiet enjoyment, Sera's cackling, and Bull's cheering- not when he was surrounded by so many familiar,  _ friendly _ faces. Not with Lavellan smiling and laughing bright and carefree right next to him.

It was easy to forget what the dawn would bring.

It turns out, there was a lot of standing around and waiting when it came to wars. Dorian shivered in the cold desert dawn, groggy and slightly hungover. He sat on a crate next to a yawning Varric and watched the Inquisitor jealously. The elf seemed to have an immunity to rough mornings. Lavellan had long since been awake and ready, locked in one last meeting with Cullen. Soldiers in Inquisition colors and armor stomped past in tight formations as scouts held their standards high. The Chargers were their own formation, bringing up the rear of Lavellan's party. Everyone else would be strategically placed outside the walls to support the siege. Cassandra handed him a mug of tea, eyes carefully cataloging the soon to be battlefield before them. Dorian muttered a thanks.

Cullen and Lavellan parted with a few murmured words and pats on the back, the former raising a horn to his lips and blowing a steady note while the latter made his way over to their little group. The Inquisition moved around him, the soldiers and scouts shouting and cheering as light began to spread across the dunes. Just like that the war had begun.

Tevinter hadn't been in a proper war for a long while- nothing further than skirmishes against the Qunari or Fog Warriors- but they certainly loved to talk about the ones they had been in. The history books made it sound nothing short of glorious, two distinguishable sides clashing, a right side and a wrong side. In actuality, Dorian was overlooking an unremarkable field dissolving quickly into utter chaos and ruin. 

There were other, newer pits dug outside the walls with trap covers and lined with spikes into which some of the Inquisition fell. Archers and mages from the parapets loosed magic and arrows and stones down at the marching soldiers below. The ladders were raised up and Dorian watched as the ropes for one were severed, and the whole thing fell with a crash. There were screams, cut through with the clash of metal and the iron stench of blood. In the middle, marching steadily forward was a massive battering ram. 

When it reached the gates, Lavellan adjusted his gauntlets and finally spoke. "It's time. Let's go."

They ran, cutting a way forward through the chaos of projectiles and Warden ground troops until they reached the battering ram. The door splintered before it and the Wardens shouted, retreating from the destroyed gate. Lavellan stepped through, his greatsword already glittering red and armor dusty from sand and rubble. Cullen shouted towards Lavellan as Stroud came from around the side, splattered with blood and grime. Dorian couldn't make out what they were saying over the din.

A body suddenly fell from the parapets, landing beside Varric with a wet noise. Dorian jumped back, trying desperately not to look for too long at the face of the unfortunate Inquisition soldier. Instead he looked at Lavellan, who in turn was looking upwards towards the parapets with fury. It seemed as though their first stop would be the ramparts.

Stroud led them further into the belly of Adamant with a grim sense of direction. He'd been here before many times, he told them, obviously heartsick over the corruption of his Order and it's wonders. He didn't hesitate to cut down his fellows as they attempted to impede their progression to the inner yards. Not at least until he heard a group of Warden soldiers pleading with a group of bloody handed mages.

Stroud swore before shouting, "stop! Stop this madness!" He stepped over a fallen Warden, his body pale from blood loss, to cut down a shade. 

The Wardens all turned towards Stroud, the warriors nervously looking between him and the cutting figure of the Inquisitor behind him. The mages were impassive, lost to either Corypheus or the intoxicating enthrallment of blood magic.

"Stand down. We're here for Carel," Lavellan's voice was just loud enough to carry. "Nobody else has to die, so just  _ stand down _ ."

The warriors looked uncertain, but a mage with a bloody dagger sneered. "Kill the Inquisitor," he shouted and began to cast. 

The Warden warriors decided to throw their lot in the Inquisitor, and Dorian was thankful and gave them each barriers. He hoped it wouldn't be the last time and that more Wardens could be reasoned with, but for every few they found questioning, many more had already fallen with ritual knives in between their ribs or having sliced their throats. When Hawke joined them on the battlements he simply shook his head. "We've done all we can with who we could."

They had cleared most of the way inside, as well as the parapets with ladder access, but the war still raged around them. Mages were summoning larger demons from all the spilled blood and the sky was beginning to darken above Adamant. The Anchor in Lavellan's hand arced and crackled like a wildfire. They were running out of time.

"I suggest we keep moving," Dorian pushed after they took down a group of archers guarding a stretch of battlements. "Soldiers tire, demons not so much."

Lavellan nodded, gripping the wrist of his left hand tightly. His cheek was bleeding and some of his armor had fresh dents and gouges in the metal and tearing the leather. Cassandra was wrapping a quick bandage around her bicep, tugging the cloth tight with her teeth as Varric and Hawke conferred in low tones. Stroud was pressing a ragged scrap to a bleeding graze along his temple and Dorian was shaky from mana drain. A shade had managed to slice his hand from ring finger to halfway down his wrist and he had healed it down to something stabilized, if a bit weepy.

There were fewer and fewer people as they went in, replaced by fallen bodies and demons. A greenish cast was beginning to glow from within the inner courtyard of the fortress, matching the bright green of Lavellan's Anchor. They were getting closer to the ritual, they had to be.

As it so happened, they were only a few doors away, and burst into the expansive courtyard right as Clarel slit the throat of an elderly Warden. Every head turned at their entrance. There were a surprising number of Wardens all standing around a large but inactive rift and very few looked concerned with the obvious blood magic and demon summoning. The rift and Lavellan's Anchor crackled in ominous unison.

Erimond's reedy voice echoed across the eerily quiet grounds, "stop them! Complete the ritual! Clarel-"

"Don't do this Clarel," Lavellan barked, his voice cold as steel. 

"If she doesn't do this- who will stop the Blights?" Erimond shouted, turning to plead with Clarel.

Clarel's uncertainty morphed into determination. "Bring it through!"

Dorian raised an eyebrow.  _ It _ ?

Hawke sighed and muttered, "please, not more blood magic…" as Stroud snapped at the nearest set of Wardens, "I trained half of you myself. You should all be ashamed."

"Clarel," it was strange to hear Lavellan raise his voice. "I don't want to fight. Enough lives have been lost today. You can stop this, you know it's wrong." Some of the Wardens shuffled back, looking contrite and Clarel paused. Erimond furiously tried whispering his manipulations but her attention was fixed on Lavellan. "You are being used. You know it, don't you."

"The mages aren't right, sir," a Warden piped up. "They've gone mad."

"Perhaps," Hawke began, eyes locked on Clarel, "you know you are being used, but to admit it, would mean admitting you killed so many _ for nothing _ ."

"I've shown leniency with Wardens. We can end this with no more loss of life." Lavellan's voice softened, "doing this… you'll only be doing what Corypheus wants."

"Corypheus?" Clarel hesitated, "perhaps… the ritual can wait."

"I knew you couldn't be depended on for this, Clarel," Erimond spat. "Luckily, my master gave me something just for this."

A shrieking cry shook the fortress, a monsterous noise Dorian hadn't heard since Haven- the archdemon.

"Lavellan!" Dorian shouted as the heavy beat of a dragon's wings rattled the very stone they stood on. All around them Wardens dissolved into disorder.

"Help the Inquisitor!" Clarel shouted at the same time Erimond commanded the opposite before bolting, the Warden Commander at his heels.

In his periphery, Dorian saw a Warden mage stab a warrior in the back and form the blood into a hulking shape. A pride demon. Lovely.

"This is looking pretty bad, Smiles," Varric shouted. "What are we gonna do?"

Lavellan grit his teeth and slid his greatsword from its sheath along his back. "We need to get to Clarel." He swung, slicing an approaching warrior from shoulder to hip, and stepped towards the staircases leading to the abyss. 

"Fantastic plan, Inquisitor. We'll be right behind you," Hawke called out.

Unfortunately the newly summoned pride demon had other plans, and stepped in front of Lavellan with a dark chuckle. Cassandra and Stroud were at Lavellan's side in an instant and Dorian shared a look with Hawke and called his mana to his fingertips, summoning a barrier before turning away, trusting that Hawke would keep a weather eye on the trio.

Dorian would let Lavellan and the other warriors deal with the demons beginning to swarm and focused on the mages. Many of the Wardens who still had their wits about them turned to help him and Varric, focusing their attention so they would be easy targets for a crossbow bolt or an immolation. He dispelled glyphs and blasted demons and mages back, guarding the Inquisitor and his companions from behind as they pressed onwards. 

It was slow going, but step by step they managed to make it up the stairs and through the gates Clarel and Erimond ran through. Dorian wasn't sure what he was expecting, but more ramparts weren not it. Fortunately, the sane Wardens were keeping the rest from following, and the Inquisition sounded as though it had finally caught up. It gave them a moment to breathe-

"Look out!" Lavellan shouted and grabbed Dorian's arm and Varric's collar, yanking them both hard behind a column just as the archdemon flew past.

The tip of its wing clipped the masonry, sending chunks of it blasting in all directions. A chunk knocked into Lavellan's arm and tore the elaborate platemail away from the leather and plating. The elf simply curled around the both of them protectively, heedless to any pain.

"Are you alright?" Lavellan asked.

Dorian's head was tucked uncomfortably into the cold metal plating of Lavellan's chest, bending him at a rather awkward angle and likely leaving a stunning impression of an Inquisition eye on his cheek. He was touched at the gesture regardless

"You know I always wondered what it would be like for someone to sweep me off my feet," Varric drawled. "I just always imagined it with fewer red lyrium dragons."

"You don't find red lyrium dragons romantic?"

The archdemon screeched and made another pass overhead, careening through the sky before flying off. "While it's gone- hurry!" Stroud yelled from behind another column.

The group wasted no time racing down the roofed ramparts, twisting around crumbling parapets, and barging through doors. A few lone demons were unceremoniously tossed off the ramparts by Stroud and Lavellan. Eventually they came upon a wider stretch of stonework, as wide as the ancient highways and spanning precariously over an abyss.

At the edge was Erimond and Clarel, or more accurately, Clarel standing over Erimond who was crawling away. For a brief, uplifting moment, it seemed as though they would arrive in time. Warden Clarel had seen reason and would call off the ritual and her Wardens. The war would be over and Corypheus would fail. 

It was at that moment, instead, that the archdemon swooped in and took Clarel with it's jagged teeth.

The crunch was audible, even over Erimond's cruel laughter. The archdemon made a pass over them, splattering wide arcs of blood around the abyssal causeway and landed behind their group, spitting Clarel's ragged body between them like a grim example. They were trapped between a void and the maw of a dragon.

Lavellan reached back for his greatsword- a quiet signal- as the archdemon crept forward like a hunter who had cornered its prey at last. 

The archdemon never made it, Clarel raised a hand and muttered her vows and did what Wardens were meant to do. The arcing bolt of raw magical lightning tore into its flesh, spraying black blood and red lyrium like a waterfall. The archdemon thrashed and the old stone began to quake and crack under their feet.

Lavellan shouted for them to move, but it was too late and the ground fell beneath their feet. All around him was tumbling rock and the black of the abyss.

Dorian closed his eyes and-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dunnnnn 
> 
> it's Fade Time


	36. Into the Fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from my impromptu hiatus! 
> 
> Yay!
> 
> CW: panic attacks, foul language

Dorian went from plummeting to his doom to suddenly standing with both feet firmly planted on the ground. 

It was not how he expected things to go.

When the archdemon destroyed the stone overhanging the abyss and they all fell, he had expected a never ending fall and then his untimely demise. Instead there was a bright flash of green, a deafening screech as the world tore at the seams, and then the disconcerting feeling of being ripped apart and put back together somewhere else in a blink.

Tentatively, Dorian cracked open his eyes. He was sideways, horizontal to the ground in a way that sent a wave of vertigo crashing from his stomach to his head. All around him was stone in a dreary rainbow of unnatural shades, strange mists rising from bubbling pools of foul water, and water crashing down without a source or destination. He'd never seen a place like it, but he recognized it immediately.

The Fade.

He hadn't died, he was quite sure, and this couldn't be the bottom of the abyss. The green flash- it had to be from Lavellan, tearing open the Veil. He had certainly saved them from becoming wet splatters down in the foundations of Thedas, or from falling forever, but now they were here. Physically in the Fade.

Dorian tried not to think about the last time someone from Tevinter did this.

"Shit," he heard Varric say from nearby. Hawke grunted in agreement. " _Shit_ ," he said again.

"If this is the afterlife the Chantry owes me an apology." Hawke waved a hand at the scenery and grumbled, "this looks nothing like the bosom of the Maker."

"Is this the Fade?" Stroud asked from a different pillar, perpendicular to Dorian. Nearby Lavellan stood frozen, staring up at the roiling sky like a pretty elven statue made of alabaster.

Dorian took a step towards the ground and stumbled as his center of gravity abruptly shifted. "Last time I was in the Fade, I was in a lovely palace. A desire demon fed me grapes for a bit, until trying to possess me."

"Wonderful" Varric muttered. 

"You stepped out of the Fade before, Inquisitor," Stroud turned to Lavellan. "Is this how you remember it?"

Lavellan didn't respond. He hadn't moved and was still staring sightlessly ahead, visibly trembling and not breathing. 

"Inquisitor?" 

Cassandra's voice seemed to snap Lavellan out of whatever state he was in, shocking a startled gasp out of him that rapidly devolved into ragged hyperventilating. "I don't- sorry, sorry I-" He was pale as snow and shivered harder than he had after Haven, more so than that-

Dorian had never seen Lavellan look so _terrified_.

Varric and Hawke moved to Lavellan's side, helping him down to his knees as he still struggled to breath between stuttered apologies. Hawke looked like a man long since accustomed to this sort of thing, pulling one of Lavellan's gauntlets off so he could rub circles into his palm while he murmured surprisingly comforting words. Varric busied himself trying to steady the elf's breathing before he could faint on them. "You aren't the first elf I've done this for, Inquisitor, but you are the nicest so far," Dorian overheard Hawke say as Varric chuckled. "The first elf tried to _punch_ me."

Stroud and Cassandra were doing their best to give them space while Dorian found himself torn. He wanted to help Lavellan, desperately so, but he had never seen anything like this before. Where did one begin? He was almost jealous of how easy it was for Varric and Hawke; they obviously knew which words were helpful and what sort of touch was welcome. Dorian didn't even know what was _happening_ \- this sort of thing just didn't _happen_ in Tevinter, and if it did, no doubt it would be hidden away as quickly and thoroughly as possible. Such a public display of panic and fear would make someone an easy target for exploitation. He fought down the urge to hide Lavellan out of sight, despite the only faces here being friendly and clearly sympathetic.

All this inner turmoil left him standing just off to the side; shocked and wanting to help but having neither the knowledge or fortitude to do so.

"It is a cruel thing for him," Cassandra said quietly. "To be back in this place."

To have such a visceral response to being back in the Fade… "When you found him at the Temple of Sacred Ashes… just how bad off was he?" Dorian asked, unable to keep his eyes off Lavellan's shaking shoulders. 

"I was sure he would not survive to nightfall. His wounds were severe, but his mind was the most damaged." Cassandra's voice was grim. "He said he could not remember anything, save a terrible creature hunting him. I thought it was nothing more than a feeble attempt to escape. I was wrong." 

"He told me he couldn't recall his valaslin."

Cassandra nodded. "Solas did what he could to help ease the block in his mind, but whatever it was that created it still holds him in its grasp. I fear he will meet it soon."

"You think the block came from the thing that chased him?"

"Do you not?"

Dorian didn't answer, distracted instead by Lavellan getting to his feet with a weary frown on his ashen face. He still looked shaken but was steadier. Hawke went to pick up his discarded staff and Dorian heard him mutter to Varric, "you are right. They are very similar."

"Inquisitor?" Stroud prompted politely.

"We should get to the rift. It'll take us back through the one in Adamant," Lavellan said tonelessly, avoiding eye contact. He looked exhausted. 

"We should hurry. Clarel made it sound as though something were waiting on the other side. Whatever it was they were trying to bring through."

"Great," Varric muttered. "And we're on the same side as it."

Lavellan nodded tightly leading the way towards the green glow of the rift suspended like a setting sun. Cassandra and Stroud ended up taking point while Varric and Hawke dropped behind to bicker about the last time they were both in the Fade. Dorian heard something involving being betrayed for a boat, but his attention strayed to Lavellan. He still wasn't looking at anyone and he looked as tense as a bowstring ready to snap. He was just close enough to touch.

Dorian surreptitiously checked to make sure everyone's attentions had been diverted first before reaching out and gently taking Lavellan's arm. 

"Lavellan," Dorian said quietly. "Are you alright?"

Dorian winced at his own question. This was where the Inquisitor lost himself and very nearly his life. Of course he wouldn't be alright.

"No, not really," Lavellan said after a tense moment. "This is not… I hoped never to walk in the Fade again." He looked like a man walking to the gallows. He hadn't looked up. "What if I-"

"You aren't alone this time," Dorian murmured, interrupting quickly. He gave Lavellan's arm a gentle squeeze through the leather. "We will all be right beside you, protecting you." 

That got those pretty blue eyes to flick his way, although they quickly went back to the ground. "I'm sorry you had to see me like that," he mumbled. "I imagine it did nothing good for your image of me."

Lavellan had already seen Dorian at a low point; with his past laid open by his father and all the spiraling emotions that came with it. "Nonsense, Inquisitor. You are still the same ruggedly handsome elf I've grown so fond of." Dorian winked and bumped his shoulder into Lavellan's, relishing his soft grin and the pink that spread across his cheeks and up his ears.

"You think I'm rugged?"

"Of course. You are constantly covered in dirt. I'm fairly certain that fits the very definition."

"I'm not _always_ covered in dirt," Lavellan defended, looking a little more at ease. 

"Of course you are. It's part of your charm."

Lavellan chuckled and wrapped his hand around Dorian's wrist and tugged him closer, reaching up with his other hand to cup his cheek and tug him down. Dorian went willingly, enjoying the soft press of Lavellan's mouth against his and the crackle of the Anchor flaring against his skin. It was chaste and nothing more substantial than a simple brush but he found it lovely nonetheless. It had been entirely too long since their last kiss.

"Thank you," the elf whispered against his lips. 

"Inquisitor! Come quickly!" Cassandra called from ahead. Dorian jerked away, hoping nobody witnessed their little moment as Lavellan turned and jaunted up the rest of the stone stairway.

Dorian begrudgingly watched him go until the jingle of a coinpurse caught his ear. Warily, he glanced over his shoulder at his two forgotten companions. Hawke and Varric were exchanging infuriatingly smug grins, despite the former clearly pressing a handful of coins into the latter's hands, both entirely too pleased with the situation. Before he could voice his concerns, a commotion from atop the stairs interrupted.

Dorian had never seen the Southern Divine before, but the countenance and robes were unmistakable.

"Divine Justinia?" Cassandra breathed. "Most holy?"

The Divine in question didn't spare any of them a glance, her eyes firmly locked on the Inquisitor.

Lavellan stared back. "From the little I remember- I thought you were dead," he questioned, voice more curious than unkind.

Still, only Lavellan would ask the Divine why she wasn't dead and manage to not be impolite about it.

"You don't remember anything that happened, do you, Inquisitor?" Lavellan shook his head and the Divine nodded. "Your memories lie with a Nightmare demon. It serves Corypheus, controls his army of demons, and is responsible for the false Calling. It feeds on your memories and grows fat on the fear and pain."

"Appetizing," Varric whispered as Hawke glared at the Divine, clearly not believing it to be her. 

"This Nightmare is responsible for the false Calling that took so many of my fellow Wardens?" Stroud hissed with fury. "I would gladly avenge these wrongs." 

Dorian appreciated the man's righteous streak almost as much as his mustache, but it would be a tall order to try and right the wrongs of human sacrifice, blood magic, and demon summoning. 

"You will have your chance, brave Warden." The Divine sounded almost amused. "For this is its lair."

Stroud went white and a collective chill fell over the group. 

Lavellan hesitantly asked, "the Nightmare demon is the one that Erimond was trying to bring through the rift?"

"Yes."

"And it is nearby?"

"Yes."

Lavellan let out a sigh that sounded dangerously close to a wheeze. " _Fuck_."

Varric and Hawke nodded empathetically and Dorian couldn't help muttering, " _indeed_."

The Divine continued nonchalantly, "the demon took a part of you, Inquisitor, and has it still. Defeat the ones who were formed from its power and reclaim your memories from them." She pointed in the direction of the rift, towards the far end of a slope teeming with shades and wraiths. 

At first glance, they looked about the same as all the many, many other shades and wraiths he had seen. But as their group approached, they became more grotesque. Too many arms or eyes, maws full of needle-like teeth, and floating shapes under their translucent skin. No doubt they were of a similar mold as the Nightmare demon, either by feeding off its power and scraps or having split from it some time ago. As a shade reached for him with a set of claw-tipped arms and a second set the size of a child's- he found himself dreading what the Nightmare demon would look like.

Unlike how it was outside the Fade, the demons here did not liquefy and then disappear in a cloud of dusty smoke. Instead they left large amounts of ichorous sludge everywhere in a parody of blood and turned into a low hanging fog that smelled like rotting fruits and lumber. Eventually the fog began to coalesce into shapes, a sound echoing and reverberating off walls until finally both sound and form fell into focus.

It was a scene, playing out like a stage play featuring the Divine, Corypheus, a dozen Wardens, and the unmistakable voice and face of Lavellan.

It suddenly seemed as though Stroud would need to find a new profession, and soon. It didn't seem possible for the Grey Order to atone for having a hand in sacrificing the Divine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to not pull compleeeetely from the game but I guess the next chapter will solve a lot of that...


	37. Out of the Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finaaaally done with the Fade. Now I can move on to the stuff that was The Entire Point of this fic. Or at least mostly the point.
> 
> Anyway hopefully I caught all the spelling and grammar issues, but lemme know if you find any that are super glaring/embarrassing.
> 
> CW: nasty depictions of demons, violence, and vomiting

For the first time in a long time, Lavellan looked as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He still looked utterly miserable and on edge, but he carried a noticeable air of relief and vindication with him now.

He had staunchly rejected the notion of Andraste or the Maker bestowing the Anchor to him, and now he had proof. He truly _had_ just bumbled into an occult ritual uninvited, grabbed a suspicious and powerful magical object of unknown origin, was subsequently thrown into the Fade by a devastating explosion that leveled a mountain top, and came out marked and imbued with an absurd power all from being a nosy do-gooder. It still seemed too serendipitous to attribute purely to chance and raised far more questions than answers, but that was all something for later and when in less dire situations. Preferably out of the Fade and back at Skyhold.

Something dependent on getting all of Lavellan's memories back from the Nightmare demon, according to the Divine (or spirit? Demon? Ghost?).

Which was proving to be much easier said than done.

Dorian watched as Lavellan gently slid a wilted flower into a cracked vase tucked between the dusty bones of a hunched skeleton. With a rattle the bones fell to the ground and whispered a haunting thanks on the cloud it kicked up. It was unnerving, to say the least. It was also not the first such scene they had passed by and Lavellan had fiddled with. A stuffed bear here, a note there; simple little things that seemed to offer a reprieve to the lost souls stuck in the Fade. 

Or whatever these poor bastards were.

The only time Dorian had been in the Fade was for his Harrowing, now so very long ago, and it had been nothing like this. Nothing he had ever read came even remotely close to what was going on right now. Let alone any of the books involving _physically being in the Fade._ He had never felt so out of his depth before.

Lavellan hastily brushed the skeletal dust from his hands with a disgusted frown and stood quickly.

"I'm still not sure if I should be commending you for your thoughtfulness," Dorian drawled, "Or if I should be scolding you for poking at yet another mysterious pile of bone." He hadn't done either just yet, but to be honest, he was unlikely to do any scolding. 

"Such tinkering may have unknown consequences," Cassandra added disapprovingly. Thankfully, she had fewer qualms about chastising the Inquisitor.

"All this messing with things of mysterious origin seems to be a common occurrence with you, Smiles," Varric said. He warily stepped back from the pile of dust that was once a pile of bone. "This is the fourth time in a few hours."

"What can I say," Lavellan huffed, frowning at the dust still coating his palms. "I love the surprise. Who knows what I'll get this time?"

"Perhaps a powerful magical object embedded in your right hand this time," Dorian quipped.

Lavellan nodded. "Exactly. Preferably in blue."

Cassandra sighed impressively and continued forward with Varric in tow. Dorian stayed with Lavellan and waited until the two were just out of earshot.

"It is kind of you to do all those little things," he said earnestly. "If also a little dangerous."

Lavellan shot him a tired smile. "Hopefully the consequences will be less dire than the last time I messed with magic." 

"One can only hope."

"Besides," Lavellan continued, following after his companions. "I was lost in the Fade too for a time." 

Except he had been physically trapped, hunted by a demon servant of Corypheus. A stuffed bear would have done little to help.

Hawke's voice carried over from nearby. "You seem awfully unconcerned about the Wardens holding the Divine captive for Corypheus, Stroud." He had been quietly stewing since their interaction with the Divine and after Lavellan's memory was briefly played out before them. 

Stroud did look rather nonplussed- both by the observation and Hawke's tone. "I had assumed they were under his control, like the others."

"As if that just absolves any wrongdoings," Hawke sneered. 

"They weren't in control of themselves-" 

"Well maybe if they had just-" 

"Enough!" Lavellan barked and the Fade went quiet enough to hear the steady drip of water and a faint chittering in the distance. "This isn't the time _or_ place to discuss this." He sighed, and the chittering seemed slightly louder in the pause. "There were a lot of mistakes made, and people _will_ be brought to justice, but first, we need to focus on getting to the rift and getting out."

Dorian had been focused on Lavellan, as had Cassandra, but the other three were looking just passed him.

"Lovely speech Inquisitor, but-" Varric was interrupted by Stroud shouting a call to arms and Hawke summoning a quick barrier.

Dorian tentatively turned away from Lavellan and immediately wished he hadn't. A swarm of centipede-like creatures were crawling over stones and digging their way up from the ground, coming towards them in a clicking horde. Lavellan sighed again.

"Spiders, why is it always spiders," Hawke growled, slamming the end of his staff into the thorax of one with a wet splatter.

"Spiders?" Cassandra cleaved through a particularly daring one with a disgusted look. "They look like maggots, crawling in filth."

"They are smaller fear demons. Likely feeding on the scraps left by the-"

" **Oh, we have a visitor**."

The voice, like a knife against porcelain, seemed to speak directly into Dorian's ear while simultaneously echoing across his bones like the reverberations within a cave. It sent a shivering chill down his spine and reflexively he clapped a hand to his ear, feeling silly almost immediately. He quickly immolated a fearling before it could reach Lavellan, who had startled and lost momentum on the swing of his greatsword, faltering with shock.

" **Some foolish little boy come to take back the fear I so kindly lifted from his shoulders. You should have thanked me and let your fears lay where they lie."**

"You took more than fear," Lavellan's voice was haunted, ragged and tinged with fury. His sword was steadier this time as it cleaved through the remaining fearlings. "There was more than fear-"

**"In any regard, you are a guest here in my home. Let me return what you have forgotten."**

"So this truly is the being who stole your memories away, Inquisitor." Cassandra looked towards Lavellan sadly. 

"It's low, even for a demon," Varric mumbled, shaking his head and glancing at Lavellan. "Memories make us who we are. Something that can take that away?" He shuddered. 

"He won't take any more of me away," Lavellan growled. "I would rather die than live that half-life again." He flicked the ichor from his blade and stomped towards the rift. "It's time for us to leave."

"Hopefully it won't come to that," Dorian hastily interjected, worried at where that line would head. "We are getting close to the rift."

"And to that Nightmare demon bastard." Hawke looked around warily. 

The group trudged onwards and upwards, deeper into tunneling caves and flat outcroppings of stone. Fires with no tinder blazed atop pools of murky water and sulfuric gases and sweet vapors steamed up from the ground. Shades and wraiths became fewer and far between, replaced with bloated Despair demons and Terrors with too many eyes and teeth. Pride demons with many arms loomed in the distance and before them came a stretch of wetland with intricate spirals of rocks and whirls of water. A graveyard lay in the middle.

Lavellan cleaved the hooded head from one of the Despair demons as Dorian and Hawke used dueling blasts of immolating fire and gripping walls of ice to trap a Terror demon, ran through with Stroud's sword. Cassandra twisted a Despair demon in her hands, holding it steady for Bianca's bolts. It almost seemed too easy.

**"Perhaps** **_I_ ** **should be afraid, facing the most powerful members of the Inquisition,"** the disembodied voice chuckled like broken glass. **"Greetings, Dorian."**

Dorian dutifully ignored the voice.

**"It is Dorian, isn't it? For a moment, I mistook you for your father."**

"Rather uncalled for," Dorian said with a sniff.

Lavellan chuckled quietly as he wiped demonic sludge from his cheek while Varric gave him an approving grin over the convulsing body of a Terror demon.

**"Did you think you mattered, Hawke?"**

"I can already tell this is going to be a fun next few minutes," Lavellan muttered tiredly over the last dissolving pile of former demon. Hawke groaned in agreement.

**"Did you think anything you did ever mattered? You couldn't save your city. How could you hope to strike down a god. Fenris is going to** **die just like your family and everyone you ever cared about."**

Varric whispered something to Hawke and patted his arm. "That's going to grow tiresome quickly," Hawke grumbled.

**"Once again Hawke is in danger because of you, Varric."**

"He's always in danger, it's his natural state of being," Varric replied, but his heart didn't seem to be in it. 

**"You found the red lyrium and you brought him here to die."** Varric said something under his breath, but it was drowned out by the voice continuing its taunting. **"Your inquisitor is a fraud, Cassandra. Yet more evidence that there is no Maker and your faith has been for naught."**

"Die in the void, demon," Cassandra said with a roll of her eyes. She looked almost bored.

**"Warden Stroud, how must it feel to devote your life to the Order only to watch it fall, or worse- knowing you were responsible for their destruction. When the next Blight comes, will they curse your name?"**

Stroud sighed, "with the Maker's blessing may we end this wretched beast." Cassandra nodded in agreement.

**"And** **_you_** **, Inquisitor Lavellan. What a colored history. I wonder what your dear companions would think of you, if they could see what a monster you are."**

Lavellan looked ready to scream but Cassandra shook her head and gently took his shoulder. He stared at the ground, red staining his cheeks and ears and his lips locked in a tight line. Dorian wished to hug him.

**"Your memories have been such delicious treats. So much fear and anger and loss. Would they have made you their Inquisitor, if they had known?"**

"Probably," he murmured sullenly. "They make a lot of bad decisions." 

The voice laughed and then went silent, the quiet bringing a release to a previously unnoticed pressure that had been weighting the air. 

Varric and Hawke immediately went to having one of their strange almost serious conversations in hushed tones while Cassandra went to inspect some markings on a wall. She seemed thoroughly unperturbed by the words of the demon, but her hands trembled at her sides. Dorian was looking at Lavellan, who was staring intently at the ground, and Stroud, upon noticing, stared at them both before coming to a realization and discreetly walking away to explore the lovely graveyard nearby.

Dorian would need to thank him later.

"You shouldn't put stock into the words of demons, Inquisitor," Dorian said, his voice quiet amongst the distant echoes of falling water.

"But if the words are true?" 

For the first time, Dorian didn't look to make sure they weren't watched. He took hold of Lavellan's elbows and stepped close, pulling him into a hug. The Nightmare demon had access to all of Lavellan's memories up until his departure from the Fade, but he did not have access to what made the Lavellan before him who he was now. All the struggles and victories and people that shaped him into the man he was now. A man who was far from being a monster.

If only he had the time and articulation to convince Lavellan.

"We both know they aren't," Dorian replied. "If you are a monster then I'm a chaste sister of the Chantry."

Lavellan shot him a frowny look but Dorian swooped down and pecked a kiss against his lips, chasing it away. "Listen, you obstinate little elf. Your past doesn't define you, however dark it may be. People change, you know that."

"Perhaps," Lavellan relented hesitantly.

Dorian was saved from further fruitless attempts at persuasion by Cassandra calling for Lavellan. She had moved to the graveyard with Stroud and looked incredibly uneasy.

Dorian followed after but froze when he saw the graves. There were names- _their_ names, and all the other companions of the Inquisitor- individually etched into each stone. He saw Sera, Blackwall, Cassandra, each with words underneath he didn't linger over, too busy looking for his own name.

' _Dorian Pavus- Temptation_ '. His greatest fear for all to see. 

He looked away quickly and caught sight of Lavellan standing down the row, before the biggest headstone of the bunch. He trailed his fingers along the etched name with reverence. 

' _Marion Lavellan-_ _The Truth_.'

"Is that," Dorian trailed off and Lavellan nodded.

"My name." He didn't look away from it.

"I suppose it's one good thing to come from this excursion. You've gotten your name back, and a few memories to go with it. Even if they are terrible."

Lavellan looked up, his face a strange mix of emotion. "It's an odd feeling. I know it's mine, but at the same time it's… distant. Unreal. Is that strange to say?"

"No," Dorian replied. "No it doesn't seem strange at all."

"Smiles, Sparkler," Varric called, staring towards the top of a set of stairs at the edge of the Fade touched wetland. "Looks like the Divine is waiting on us." 

Sure enough, the shocking red and white robes peeked from the top of the next flight of stairs. An ominous tunnel opened from behind her, and hopefully led through the sloping cliffs to the bright rift beyond. Cassandra and Stroud were already atop the stairs, waiting patiently as Hawke ascended the stairs with a dour look. 

"The Nightmare is closer now," the Divine said in lieu of a greeting. "It knows you seek to escape, and grows stronger with each moment."

"It's guarding the rift," Hawke observed. "Waiting for us."

The Divine nodded and stepped away from their group. "I have not been entirely honest with you, but now- now I believe is the right time."

The form of the Divine began to glow and grow into a bright golden ball of light before condensing into a figure made of solid sunlight, hovering a scant distance from the ground. Fog lifted from around its feet and took the shape of Lavellan yet again, chased by fearlings and harried by the Divine in dirty red and white. He was bleeding in thick rivulets, gasping and pale and unable to keep ahead of the fearlings. Just when it seemed he was about to succumb to his injuries and exhaustion, the Divine became light and pushed him ahead and into the rift. The illusion disappated like smoke, as quick as it came.

"They thought it was Andraste or the Divine," Lavellan said quietly. "It was you. The Divine had already died."

"So it is a spirit," Stroud whispered as Hawke snorted. 

"You don't say."

"I am sorry to disappoint you." The golden spirit floated further away, continuing as it led them through the tunnel like a shining beacon. "The Nightmare watched Corypheus and grew powerful off his fear."

"Did you do the same with the Divine and her faith?" Hawke asked lowly. The spirit of the Divine ignored him, heading further away into the dank dark, the light fading with the growing distance.

"I suppose we should keep following her then," Dorian said. "She is our way only way to the rift, after all."

"And to the Nightmare demon," Hawke grumbled.

**"Do you think you can fight me?"** The disembodied voice of the Nightmare boomed through the tunnel.

Hawke jolted and swore loudly, "Maker's cock, speak of the-"

**"** ** _I_ ** **am your every fear come to life.** **_I_ ** **am the veiled hand of Corypheus himself!"**

"I do believe we are getting rather close," Dorian drawled. The spirit of the Divine had gone quite far ahead and all around them was an oppressive darkness. He eyed it warily.

Lavellan sighed miserably as the Nightmare continued to spit his cruelties and tauntings. "I'm so very tired of this place."

Dorian patted his shoulder consolingly.

The spirit of the Divine stopped at what was hopefully the exit. "You must get through, Inquisitor. Then you must slam shut the gates. That will banish the demons and send the Nightmare to the furthest reaches of the Fade." With that it floated onwards.

The tunnel opened up into a large hollowed out space surrounded by sheer stone on all sides. Spires of craggy rocks shaped like skulls and piled high dotted the ground, which was interspersed with pools of foul water and quivering masses of slime and refuse. The smell was an atrocious blend of sweet rot and burning hair. In the middle floated an eyeless horror with spider-like appendages jutting from it's back. Above it loomed a many-eyed monstrosity, guarding the glowing rift at the edge of the hollow.

" _Fasta vass_ but that's a big one," Dorian shouted over the collective gasps and swears of the others.

Lavellan made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a growl and Cassandra made a disgusted noise of agreement. 

"The rift," Hawke pointed. "We're almost there-"

"Great, Hawke," Varric snarked. "Why not just dare the old gods to try and stop us?"

The horror on the ground screeched and the grotesque spectre above turned towards them. Instinctively Dorian and the others stepped back. His skin crawled and his stomach churned, the air around him felt too thin to breathe. 

The bright light of the spirit of the Divine suddenly brushed past like a warm summer breeze, and a sliver of the fear gripping his heart eased.

"If you would please," the spirit said, "tell Leliana, 'I'm sorry I failed you too'." 

Like a growing fire, the spirit glowed as it floated up and flared, flashing a blinding light and sending the Nightmare scrabbling back away from the hollow.

"Now!" Lavellan roared, unsheathing his greatsword with shaking hands and charging. "While the demon is gone- we'll fight through!"

Stroud and Cassandra followed at his heels with no hesitation and the horror hissed menacingly. Fearlings began crawling out of the refuse and down the sides of the hollow, chittering and scratching and clawing. Varric sent precise bolts into each that grew close to the two mages, who raised barriers and laid glyphs in tandem. For a Fereldan apostate, Hawke was incredibly skilled and Dorian found himself thankful. 

Stroud sliced a long line through the horror's stomach, spilling grey viscera and pus out onto the ground while Cassandra loped off one of its strange appendages. It clawed and rasped and shrieked and the fearlings doubled their assault. In the distance the Nightmare had recovered and began to march towards them on legs made of thousands of writhing tentacles. 

They were running out of time.

The warriors continued their desperate struggles as Varric and the mages continued to try and keep the fearlings at bay. It seemed hopeless, like fighting the tide. Stroud was knocked aside with his sword clanging to the stone just out of arms reach and Varric was running out of bolts for Bianca. The horror gurgled and chuckled and the fearlings kept coming. Cassandra's shield splintered under the arm of the horror and exhaustion was beginning to tug at Dorian's arms as he burned the endless rush of centipede-like creatures. Mana was in no short supply here, but the constant flow of it was beginning to wear him down like bloodloss. It seemed like luck when Lavellan's sword sliced through the horror's middle, catching on the bones of its spine and becoming stuck.

The horror screamed and the fearlings shrank back but it was not over quite yet. With a sick laugh the horror reached over the hilt in its belly and stretched its triple jointed fingers towards Lavellan.

"You wanted your memories back so badly," it rasped, its skin beginning to melt. "Have it your way." 

Lavellan recoiled as the pads of its gangly fingers sought for his forehead, glowing a sickly green. Whatever the effect, it was immediate. Lavellan gasped, his muscles seizing and releasing the hilt of his sword as he stumbled back, and then he fell to the ground and heaved. Cassandra cried out for him, but it was Stroud who went to his side. Cassandra went instead to the hilt of the greatsword still lodged in the horror's spine and with a roar pushed the ethereal blue of templar power through its blade as she yanked it free with a wet slice. The Nightmare demon above screamed in unison with the horror as it began to dissolve into ash and slime, the force of it shaking the foundations of the Fade. 

"We need to go," Lavellan called out, trembling and pushing Stroud and Cassandra towards safety.

The rift was at the edge of the hollow, up a short flight of wide stairs and crawling with chittering fearlings. They were easily dispatched while Lavellan raised his left hand and attempted to tear open the way home. Above them, the Nightmare turned and fixed its multitude of eyes upon them with palpable fury.

The rift screeched and groaned in protest before finally giving way with a shatter. Between the green lightning edges, the courtyard of the Adamant fortress came into blurry focus. 

Hawke and Cassandra both pushed Varric through as Stroud murmured to Lavellan quietly. "We will not get through in time. The Nightmare must be stalled."

Dorian didn't mean to overhear but- "Lavellan?"

He wouldn't stay. He wouldn't-

Lavellan glanced his way and smiled softly. "Go on through, Dorian. I'll be right behind you." 

Cassandra went through next at the behest of Hawke, but Dorian couldn't move, not until Lavellan pushed him forward and into the rift.

It was a similar feeling to his first foray through a rift, only less falling and a more gentle landing. Dorian stumbled out of the rift and over the uneven cobbles of the courtyard. Joining Cassandra and Varric as they waited, paying no mind to the crowd gathering around them.

Dorian watched the rift and counted the seconds that turned to minutes.

Lavellan didn't emerge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dunnn...
> 
> So, I had been making a game attempt at Saturday updates, but my schedule has drastically changed in the wake of the global pandemic. I think I'm gonna start trying for Tuesday updates after this one, which should give me a bit more time.
> 
> Up next: the fall-out of the Fade >:)


	38. Eye of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's still 2 hours left of my Tuesday ;_;
> 
> So we are good.

Dorian couldn't breathe.

It had been minutes (felt like hours) since he had been gently pushed through the rift. He could still feel the ghostly imprints of Lavellan's hands on his back.

Lavellan still hadn't come through the rift.

The world was a chaotic blur around him, Warden grey and blue and Inquisition green and tan. In the heart of it was the rift. Dorian couldn't take his eyes off of it, worried he would miss seeing Lavellan come through but fearing the worst. He wouldn't stay behind.

Would he?

It was nearing four minutes now.

The rift suddenly flared, shooting arcs of green lightning across the cobbles and strewn bodies and searing into the arm of a Warden who stood too near. The onlookers cried out and cursed in alarm, but for Dorian it was as if the air had returned to the world. Lavellan stumbled out of the rift with all the grace of a drunken calf with Hawke right at his heels. The both of them landed in a heap followed by grotesque shape. 

A horrible spider-like leg had come through, as tall and as wide as three grown men and with skin covered in blood and slime and spiky hairs as sharp as knives. The pointed tip of it just barely missed impaling Lavellan in the shoulder. The Anchor flared in Lavellan's hand and he quickly pointed it at the rift, wrenching it shut and slicing the Nightmare's leg clean off with a splash of blackish red sludge and a high pitched wail. The Inquisition soldiers cheered as Lavellan then ripped the rift to pieces, scattering it like ash on the wind. The remaining demons on the ramparts melted away into wispy smoke, and the siege of Adamant ended. 

Hawke and Lavellan helped each other up with shaking limbs. Stroud hadn't come through. 

Inquisition soldiers and the subdued Wardens crowded in close to where the rift once stood, blessing Andraste's Herald and lavishing him with praise. Dorian and the other companions who had walked in the Fade did not join, knowing there was little worth celebrating.

Normally when faced with praise, Lavellan would get uncomfortable and endearingly modest. He would decline any accolades with a polite word and a humoring smile that wouldn't quite reach his eyes and move on. Instead, he carried a weighted tension in his posture and an expression that Dorian had never seen- not like this. Lavellan was utterly _furious_.

"Warden Stroud," one of the finer dressed Wardens asked when the revelry died down. "Where did-"

"Warden Stroud has died," Lavellan replied, his voice icy cold. He hadn't taken his eyes off of where the rift once stood. "He died trying to fix the mistakes of your Order- for your _idiocy_."

The Wardens at least had the decency left to look contrite about being scolded by the Inquisitor. 

"Sir, without Warden Stroud- there's nobody left of any significant rank," a different Warden pushed.

"Then the Order will work for the Inquisition," Lavellan announced. 

He was immediately met with a disapproving outcry from his soldiers and a few Wardens. 

"Silence!" Lavellan shouted, and silence fell. He turned to fully face the crowd, his eyes stormy. "The Order will work for the Inquisition as they rebuild. They are still susceptible to Corypheus' influence. There will be much to do to fix their mistakes and prevent them from happening again. Therefore, the Order will work for the Inquisition for now."

The grumbling quieted and Lavellan glanced at Hawke with a narrowed glare and strode off towards the encampment. Dorian did not envy Cullen's position in the least. 

Hawke came over to where the companions stood with a sigh. "I believe your Inquisitor is rather unhappy with Stroud and I," he said quietly.

"You both made a decision," Cassandra said. Hawke nodded. "He did not approve."

"Clearly," Hawke grumbled, crossing his arms. 

Varric nudged an elbow into Dorian's side. "You should go talk to him."

"What, about the weather? The humidity leaves much to be desired." 

Lavellan was livid. Between his usual Corypheus troubles, the Wardens' stupidity, and now the loss of Stroud, Dorian didn't imagine Lavellan wanted to do much talking. He'd had a rough time lately, what with physically walking in the Fade, being accosted by a Nightmare demon responsible for destroying his mind, and then acquiring a large group of people susceptible to an archdemons influence. He probably just wanted to be alone.

"He'd appreciate the company," Varric pressed, "even if just to talk about the weather."

"Nobody likes talking about the weather, Varric," Hawke said dryly. Varric subtly pushed him away.

"Perhaps you could talk some sense into him as well," Cassandra added unhelpfully. 

"C'mon Sparkler, or would you rather the Inquisitor be all broody and quiet the whole way home?"

Dorian was reluctant to concede any points to Varric, but the last time Lavellan had been truly upset he hadn't talked for days. Albeit, after a very uncomfortable heart to heart, it did lead to some lovely things. He really didn't want to suffer through the Inquisitor's silence again.

"Fine." He relented with a sigh. "I'll help- on one condition."

Not long after watching Varric sweet talk his way into the seized larder, Dorian found himself outside of the Inquisitor's tent prepared with a tray of various fruits, breads, and cheeses in one hand and a bottle of fine red in the other. Steeling himself for another inevitably heartfelt conversation, Dorian lifted the flap of the tent and stepped inside. He was not, however, prepared for the Inquisitor to turn at his entry with a look of pure rage.

"I thought I told-" Lavellan blinked, then flushed and glanced away, deflating ever so slightly. "I apologize. You aren't- I didn't mean to yell at you."

"And just who were you planning on yelling at?" Dorian questioned while setting the tray and bottle down on the low table between them and taking stock of the situation.

Lavellan had been pacing the tent like a caged tiger, given the sandy trail he left between furnishings. His hair was a mess, his wounds untouched, and his armor was strewn about. His various daggers and grappling chains and other accessories were similarly tossed to the ground and onto low folding chairs and across his bed. It looked as though a whirlwind had swept through and divested Lavellan of everything he had been wearing.

"Leliana, Sera, Blackwall- Cullen has been here _three times_." Lavellan scrubbed a dirty hand through his dirty hair. "And now- are you here to try and talk some sense into me as well?" He glowered.

"No." Dorian raised an eyebrow and set about uncorking the bottle of wine. "Do you want me to?"

Lavellan crossed his arms, nodding towards the pile of fruits and asking instead "are you going to peel some grapes for me then?" 

Dorian scoffed. "Goodness _no_. I don't know how one goes about peeling grapes. I'd slice a finger off."

Making himself comfortable on the edge of Lavellan's soft and absurdly furry bed, Dorian set about peeling the rind from an orange. The Adamant stores were split between Orlesian goods and Tevinter imports in an almost clean split. He'd be remiss to not indulge in a few treats from home when he had the chance. Lavellan simply frowned at him harder.

"The Venatori have certainly made themselves at home already. We aren't far from the southern borders of Tevinter, all things considered." Dorian popped a wedge of orange into his mouth, chewing nonchalantly under Lavellan's sullen gaze. "I'm certain if we looked around, we would find all manner of trite propaganda and illicit goodies."

Dorian chewed at another piece, waiting for a verbal response but Lavellan's lips remained locked in a tight, unhappy line. He gamely continued on. "Perhaps there will be even better books to add to your frankly abysmal collection. The _Malefica Imperium_ is utter rubbish. Your library seems to be an excellent place to learn whether Divine Galatea took a shit on Sunday, however."

"So you've told me," Lavellan finally huffed. "You aren't here to critique my library, so what is this really about?"

Carefully, Dorian set aside the peeled orange and took a deep breath.

"You sent me ahead, but did not follow." 

"I didn't do it on purpose," Lavellan grumbled, but he did avert his eyes apologetically.

"I thought… I couldn't help but think, 'this'," Dorian whispered, eyes closed. "'This is where I lose him'. I feared the worst. I've just gotten you and I…" 

He opened his eyes and took in Lavellan's disheveled and torn tunic and leggings, the scabbing and weepy cuts littering his bruised and pale flesh. The exhaustion and disappointment and anxious energy clinging to him like a shroud.

"Are you alright?" 

It was an empty echo of Lavellan, when he had asked not so long ago. He knew the answer already, just like how Lavellan likely already knew his, but the question seemed to loosen something in Lavellan regardless. 

"No, I don't think so," the elf murmured. 

His eyes were still downcast and his ragged fingers twitched restlessly. Dorian wordlessly reached for him, and if Lavellan was a little over eager for the touch, for some comfort, he didn't say. Instead he tugged him onto the bed. 

"Stroud stayed back." Dorian hummed and called forth his mana, feeding tendrils of it through his hands to soothe at the cuts he could see. "He told Hawke to force me through." Dorian had assumed as much. He was immeasurably thankful to the both of them. 

"It's as I thought," he hummed, brushing his hands up to Lavellan's shoulders and down his sides. 

The ribs he had mended so long ago had cracked. The rest of his wounds were mercifully superficial. Dorian pulled Lavellan closer, and let him rest his head against his shoulder. It was easy to tell that Lavellan found comfort in physical touch, not just with pretty words.

"I didn't get to talk to him," the elf continued, cheek smushed against Dorian's shoulder. "He knew the Dalish clans around Kirkwall."

"And he knew clan Lavellan then?"

"Yes. We never were able to talk much about it. Now we never will." 

Dorian hummed and picked his orange back up, practically feeling Lavellan's nose scrunch up at the citrusy aroma. They both fell silent for a time, and Dorian wordlessly offered a wedge of fruit. Lavellan gave it an adorable sniff before leaning down and taking it with his mouth, brushing his lips over the tips of Dorian's fingers. Not for the first and certainly not for the last time, Dorian was thankful they were out of the public eye. 

Lavellan gave it a hearty chew but his displeasure was palpable. "This tastes…," he paused. "Interesting."

"Oh, your poor, delicate taste buds," Dorian teased, but reached over to grab a soft peach. "Perhaps this will better suit your tastes."

This time he was prepared for Lavellan's unorthodox methods, and after a far more pleased little hum, they devolved back into companionable silence. He hadn't expected this confrontation to wind up with him hand feeding his Inquisitor slices of Tevinter fruits, but in all fairness he hadn't put much thought into what would happen at all. Lavellan was at least more relaxed, pressed up against his side and his head tucked under Dorian's chin. The hand resting on his upper thigh was mildly distracting and thankfully not the one with the pulsing anchor. All in all, he'd consider this a success.

"I shouldn't have yelled at the Wardens," Lavellan said eventually. "Even though they deserved it."

"Now now, you are showing them incredible amounts of leniency. They can stand a little scolding." Dorian tutted as Lavellan slid down to rest his head against his thigh like it were a pillow. "Anyone else would have sent them away, or worse."

"It was tempting. But I've fought my fair share of darkspawn. Gullible as they were, it would hurt more than it would help." Lavellan frowned at Dorian's knees. "Although, I'm not sure how much community service would absolve them of all the blood magic, human sacrifice, and general willful ignorance they got up to. Not to mention sending me to the Fade for a second time."

"It will take a lot of time and work to repair the Order, that's for certain. But chin up, my Inquisitor," Dorian replied brightly, patting Lavellan's head. "One good thing came from your trip to the Fade at least. You have name now. _Marion_ , wasn't it?"

Lavellan stiffened and shot him a disapproving look. "We need to work on your pronunciation," but then he smiled a tiny smile and relented, "but you are right. One thing, at least."

"Two, if you count getting your memories back."

The elf shuddered and grimaced. "None of them were good. It was just what happened at the Conclave and then more of my first time in the Fade. There's still this giant blank patch."

Lavellan turned onto his back, looking up at him with those soulful glacial eyes and a thoughtful tilt to his lips. Dorian had been in Lavellan's position before, with many a prostitute and occasional fling when he was younger and more naive, but none had ever relaxed in his lap like this. There was a thrilling domesticity to it.

"I'm glad you were with me," Lavellan whispered.

Dorian smiled down at him. "I honestly wish I hadn't been." 

Lavellan chuckled and shrugged. "Fair point," he smiled. "It was utterly horrible."

"The last time a Tevinter Magister walked in the Fade they started the Blights. I'm not sure what will happen now." Dorian rubbed the tip of his chin thoughtfully. 

Lavellan reached up and patted his chest. "It's a good thing you aren't a Magister, but only an Altus then."

Mock gasping, Dorian cooed, "you finally got my title correct!"

Lavellan laughed loudly only to be cut off by a yawn. 

"You should rest. Then you should teach me how to properly say your name."

Lavellan yawned again but nodded. "Only if you help me come up with a scheme to keep other idiots from walking in the Fade."

"You have a deal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now for all the fun expedition goodness before Halamshiral


	39. Sleepless Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow I got this chapter done early. Wild!

Dappled hazy light filtered through the dull green canopy above and sunk into the eternal fog that rose from the ground. The colors here were muted, making the rare splotches all the more vibrant, but no less beautiful. It had always been his home, until it wasn't.

Marion Lavellan stared up at the mossy boughs above him and reveled in the creeping chill and the damp smell of old growth. It was a welcome reprieve from the heat of the desert and the eternal stench of baked sand. Taking a deep breath, he began to walk.

The twisting roots of the tall and weeping trees broke through the worn path under his bare feet. The soft loam gave way to peat bogs and shallow marshes at every dip and clearing, and all around him was the chittering cacophony of insects and the croaking of frogs. Monochromatic birds swooped overhead, nesting in the dangling vines and draping sheaves of algae and moss.

It had been some time since he had been here, since he had been _home_.

Now if only he could remember which way home was.

He walked, and walked, and walked. All around him the trees grew denser, the fog thicker, and yet the familiar markings and trails he looked for were nowhere to be found. Still, an unknown _something_ pushed him onwards. So on he walked.

In the distance, a shape began to emerge from the fog to meet him. Lavellan stopped and stood. It was another elf, wearing a similar set of ironbark and leather armor as he did. It was a mirror image of him; the same fine rusty red hair, pale skin, lean build, and a vallaslin inked above his right dark blue eye. Except Lavellan's eyes were a lighter blue, and this elf had the winding cords of a different Creator.

The elf reached out for him with a red tipped hand and Lavellan stepped back- only to stumble. His feet were stuck in the mud, and were rapidly sinking deeper. His doppelganger stepped closer, his chest splitting open to pour old blood and-

"You shouldn't be here, Inquisitor," a voice spoke from over his shoulder.

Lavellan twisted to look and froze wide-eyed at the sight of the many-eyed wolf staring down at him, teeth bared. Before he could utter a single sound, the wolf lunged and the world faded into a swirl of red and black and green. 

He woke with a ragged gasp, the forest replaced by the canvas of his tent, the mud nothing more than sweat-soaked linen and fur. Shaking and breathing hard, Lavellan flung an arm over his eyes and groaned. Another night of too little sleep, the third in a row. If anything, he expected to be plagued by nightmares and horrible visions of the Fade after Adamant, not haunted by bittersweet reminisces of places he couldn't recall visiting. 

At this point he wasn't sure which would be worse.

Knowing he'd be unable to fall back asleep and feeling a restless itch under his skin, he set about getting prepared for the days march. They were four days from Skyhold, depending on if the weather would continue to hold out, and he was already feeling exhausted. During seemingly random moments he'd find himself suddenly remembering either his first or his second time in the Fade with a shocking clarity. Memories of the horror's sharp hands grasping his flesh, the fearlings scuttering and biting, the fear and anguish- left him so on edge he could barely focus. Just one of the many things all compounding in some grand effort to make his life difficult. 

When he wasn't reliving a waking nightmare he was back to being the Herald of Andraste again. He'd spent the last five days being awed at, cooed over, and reasoned with like a child, but mostly just worshipped by every Warden, member of the Inquisition, and peasant they came across. It was maddening, being placed back on that holy pedestal. Almost as maddening as his damned Inner Circle.

Solas and Madame de Fer had been incessant with their questions about his time in the Fade and Blackwall had been even more fanatical to the cause now that he'd shown leniency with the Order. Varric and Cassandra had both approved of Hawke's decision and Lavellan wasn't ready to forgive any of them, no matter how well intentioned. Bull was thankfully staying out of trouble, but he kept inviting people to beat him with sticks and it was unnerving everyone- especially since it seemed to do more than release some steam. Meanwhile, Sera had been even weirder around the few remaining Warden mages and Cole had been constantly hovering at the edge of his periphery. He had asked only once if Lavellan had wanted his help to forget, saying that he had been happier when he couldn't remember the Fade. He hadn't dared ask again, but it didn't stop him from loudly hoping at a distance. Leliana and her agents were quick to give him a wide berth after a few days, but Cullen wasn't as fortunate or observant. Lavellan would have felt bad about snapping at his commander, but if he had to hear one more report about latrine trenches he was going to go insane. 

All of these little things had compounded into a powder keg in Lavellan's gut.

He could only hope that today would be less trying on his patience. Otherwise, he may not be making it back to Skyhold.

The morning started off blissfully peaceful. It was long before dawn rose, so he had one of the waning fires to himself. A tired quartermaster came by with a bowl of thick gruel and hard cracker-like bread which normally would have been disgusting. Instead he found the lack of flavor perfect for numbing his already overtaxed mind. He couldn't remember ever being so tired before.

Being so close to dawn meant that next to no one else was awake and he had plenty of time to find a secluded spot on the ground to doze in until it was time to start moving. Leliana had barred his tree napping habits a few days ago. He managed a brief twenty minute nap before the camp began to stir. 

If only there was a way to sleep while riding his horse.

The hours passed in a blur, the gentle hills of Orlais looming from the smoother plains of the western lands. The countryside was rather beautiful in a spacious and scenic way. Lavellan could not bring himself to admire it properly- let alone do much of anything but keep himself upright in the saddle. Especially not when his eyes were drooping so much.

By the time the Inquisition was stopping for camp just a day and a half from the base of the Frostbacks, he was more than ready to just find a nice pile of leaves to sleep in, his tent be damned. Not bothering to stop by for an evening meal, Lavellan stumbled over towards the nearest soft looking mound of foliage. He found a half decomposed pile of leaves and moss at the base of an old maple and flopped down. 

Josephine would shit her silk smalls if she saw him rolling around in detritus after spending almost a year carefully molding his image. 

He couldn't bring himself to care. Not when he could practically feel the tension bleeding from his muscles and into the loam underneath his body. He sighed and settled in… only for nothing to happen as the minutes passed by. Lavellan wanted to scream.

Instead, he sat up and shuffled to lean against the tree behind himself, resigned and beyond exhausted. 

"I didn't think I'd find the Herald of Andraste popping out of the ground over here," Dorian's smooth voice came from beside him. Bleary-eyed and close to snapping, Lavellan could only hum in response. "You know, I didn't get to say this before during the flurry of Adamant, but if you keep pulling miracles out of your ass I'll have to start worshipping you myself."

It was a line he should have expected from Dorian, always the casual flirt and funny quip, but all he could think about was how tired he was. The thought of one more person- of _Dorian_ , worshipping him had him seeing red.

"I don't need any more worshipping, let alone from you," Lavellan snapped, stumbling to a stand but leaning heavily on against the maple. "I'm not some holy artifact or god avatar. I can't be-," he swayed and clenched his burning eyes shut. "I can't be both. I can't be Andraste's anything and…" He faltered and slumped, "...and your lover at the same time. I can only be one."

Lavellan's throat felt tight and his hands shook. The thought of Dorian treating him as nothing more than the Herald, as a religious figure, left him feeling sick. This was a conversation long overdue, probably, but he hadn't planned on it being like this. Dorian was going to hate him.

But the thought of Dorian putting him on a pedestal and venerating him like everyone else-

What if he was only interested in him because of what he was? As just some holy figure?

"I'll admit," Dorian said slowly, his voice low as if Lavellan were some spooked creature. "In Tevinter there is no separation between a man and his title. It's considered an integral part of one's identity."

"We aren't in Tevinter," Lavellan hissed, snapping open his eyes if only to shoot the mage a withering glare. Or at least towards the blurry shape of him. 

Dorian didn't respond, but he also didn't move away. The silence between them was deafening, but the birdsong and murmur of the camp tore at his ears. Everything was ruined. 

"You're right. We aren't in Tevinter."

"Dorian…," he muttered, closing his eyes again. Lavellan felt himself shrivel up, and wished to turn to dust.

He felt staff-calloused fingers cup his cheek, rubbing against the deep graze he'd relived receiving three times since Adamant. Lavellan leaned into the touch, unsure if it may be the last time he'd feel it. He didn't want to lose Dorian's affections, but he refused to have them if they weren't for _him_. He opened his mouth to say as much only to be unceremoniously shushed.

"You're right. I've been away from Tevinter for long enough now." Dorian slid his other hand around Lavellan's waist and pulled him close. It would've been a hug if he hadn't immediately melted into Dorian's chest and let his arms dangle limply at his sides. The relief had him sighing. "It'll be difficult for me to ignore your title, but if it's what you wish, then I'll try."

"I'm more than the Herald," Lavellan insisted, words slurred and muffled.

"That's true."

"I don't want to be the Herald again. I can't be," Lavellan admitted, slumping further until Dorian was all that was holding him up. The man grunted in complaint but held him anyway. "Even if it's for you."

"That's alright. I'm not interested in you as the Herald of Andraste."

"From now on we go as equals okay? Just… just Dorian and Lavellan. No worshipping."

"No religion in the bedroom." Lavellan's head bounced as Dorian chuckled. "I'll endeavor to keep this relationship thoroughly sacrilegious."

Lavellan nodded, drained from _everything_.

"In all seriousness, and on a much different topic, you seem dead on your feet."

"I haven't slept." Dorian hummed. "I can't sleep."

Creators did he wish to though.

"I see." Lavellan wondered if he could get back to his attempted nap. "Perhaps a drink will help. Varric has a few bottles of mead stowed away."

"Mead sounds good," Lavellan slurred, letting himself be manhandled back to the campsite. "Mead sounds great, actually."

Perhaps a little help would get him to sleep, and then he could apologize to Dorian properly. 

Maybe he could apologize to Cullen soon too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I related to Lavellan pr hard in this one.


	40. Restless Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ngl, I haven't proofread this as well as I probably should have before posting, but yolo.
> 
> Anyway here's the last chapter except according to Dorian

Inquisitor Lavellan was not a man who often looked horrible. Quite the opposite actually. He was a striking creature, all elegant cheekbones and regal features, full lips and thick lashes, and a lean body sculpted by a master. Even while sweaty or covered in filth, as he so often was, he had a countenance to him that was undeniably attractive.

Dorian couldn't deny that he had spent quite some time just staring on multiple occasions.

Today, however, he looked like he had been chewed up and spat out by a bear. Dark circles hung underneath his once glacial and impossibly bright blue eyes, now turned a haunted dull grey. He was sallow, his pale skin devoid of vibrancy, and his shoulders were slumped in exhausted defeat. 

More than once he had nearly slid right off his horse, and more often than that had he suddenly startled, as if spooked by something unseen. He worried that Lavellan seemed to be gradually heading for some kind of breakdown. Dorian watched as each day the seemingly infinite well of Lavellan's patience dried up. Trying to have a conversation was not so dissimilar to talking to a wall with how out of focus and curt he seemed to be.

He looked terrible. He likely felt just as bad.

"I thought you talked to him," Varric griped. "Why is he like this? Did you do this?"

"No!" Dorian huffed. "He was thoroughly pleased when we last talked. Although it has been awhile."

Not for a lack of trying at least, but Lavellan had gotten less chatty as time passed and eventually avoided social interaction entirely. Dorian thought he was bad after their trip to the Redcliffe inn, _this_ was worse.

"The men are growing worried, seeing him like this," Cassandra said, poking at the embers of the campfire with a stick. "I cannot help but worry myself."

"He's exhausted," Bull rumbled. "Never seen an elf with bags bigger than their eyes before."

That was certainly true. Nightmares from Adamant perhaps? All the camping and hiking? The stress of the position? The possibilities were practically endless. 

"He cannot keep this up," Cassandra added with a dour nod.

Dorian watched as Lavellan staggered off towards the trees, tiredly wiping at his eyes and agreed. Unsure of what exactly to do but too worried to do nothing, Dorian got up and followed after him. The soldiers watched him as he went, but didn't stop him. They seemed unhappy to see him trail after their Inquisitor but more fearful of his mood than concerned about any Tevinter mischief.

Amused, Dorian watched as Lavellan threw himself down into a muddy pile of detritus and damp leaves. It hardly looked comfortable, but he seemed to relax as if it were the most luxurious chaise. Dorian wondered if he was finally settling down to sleep- even if it was still bright out- but it quickly became apparent that sleep was not in the cards. Lavellan eventually sat up and pouted.

He looked adorable and dead inside.

His worry won out and he slowly meandered over to Lavellan.

"I didn't think I'd find the Herald of Andraste popping out of the ground over here," Dorian said, getting a slow blink and a hum in response. Undeterred, slightly, he continued while attempting for a bit of humor, "you know, I didn't get to say this before during the flurry of Adamant, but if you keep pulling miracles out of your ass I'll have to start worshipping you myself." He added a heavy wink, which went completely unnoticed.

A shame, he had been thinking on that particular line for longer than he'd care to admit.

No matter, he'd chuckle and maybe a smile a little- "I don't need any more worshipping, let alone from you," Lavellan snarled, shooting up but falling against the tree behind him. "I'm not some holy artifact or god avatar. I can't be-," he swayed heavily and shut his tired eyes. Dorian resisted the urge to steady him. "I can't be both. I can't be Andraste's anything and… and your lover at the same time. I can only be one."

Dorian stood frozen. This was not how he expected this to go at all, but perhaps he should have. It was hard to push down his initial defensive urge, but that would help no one. Lavellan hadn't been cruel to him, he could spare a moment to cool down and think. Had he not been watching people worship Lavellan at every turn since the first day he followed him back to Haven? Of course the joke would fall flat. 

He found himself more caught up on being referred to as Lavellan's lover.

That would be something to moon over later, however.

"I'll admit," he said carefully. Lavellan was always thoughtful with his words, surely he could do the same. "In Tevinter there is no separation between a man and his title. It's considered an integral part of one's identity."

In a twisted way, titles meant everything and nothing to him. Titles were a visceral part of someone's identity, in the same way a name was. In Tevinter, they determined your very worth as a person. However, Dorian often found himself unable to respect the titles of people he also could not respect, linked as the two were. It often had him labeled as "mouthy" and "impertinent" as a result. He respected Lavellan's titles, he'd certainly earned them, and by extension he respected Lavellan, a great deal, in fact. 

"We aren't in Tevinter," Lavellan hissed, scowling furiously at him with bleary eyes. 

Dorian would have been more offended if Lavellan didn't look so miserable.

He had a point, one Dorian should have thought about but never did, and now he had the chance to think about it. He'd never imagined separating Lavellan from his position as Herald or his position as Inquisitor. He'd always liked seeing Lavellan when he was out and about being all Heraldy, he also liked seeing Lavellan secretly enjoying all the autonomy and authority being Inquisitor gave him. He didn't think about how the elf felt regarding the former and the latter suddenly made that awkward conversation in the Western Approach make more sense.

"You're right. We aren't in Tevinter."

Hadn't he said once that he liked seeing _Lavellan_? He could do this one thing for the man he- he was fond of. Besides, he had been learning a great deal of different and challenging things lately. What was one more?

"Dorian…," Lavellan muttered despondently. 

He looked heartbroken, and Dorian wondered why. This was hardly something to fret over- a little unorthodox, but everything regarding Lavellan had been so far. Proof in how he only glanced back for a second to see if anyone was watching before cupping Lavellan's jaw with all the softness he could muster. The elf swayed and leant towards him in a worrying way. Lavellan was quite heavy. He also seemed prepared to say something unnecessary and politely apologetic.

Dorian shushed him.

"You're right. I've been away from Tevinter for long enough now." Dorian pulled the elf close enough to slump against him. "It'll be difficult for me to ignore your title, but if it's what you wish, then I'll try."

"I'm more than the Herald," is what he assumed Lavellan said. His face was pressed against Dorian's collarbones.

"That's true."

"I don't want to be the Herald again. I can't be," Lavellan continued, his voice clearer but body relaxing further until Dorian was all but forced to hold him up. "Even if it's for you."

"That's alright. I'm not interested in you as the Herald of Andraste."

Lavellan nodded slowly into Dorian's chest. "From now on we go as equals okay? Just… just Dorian and Lavellan. No worshipping."

"No religion in the bedroom." Dorian couldn't help but chuckle at his own joke. "I'll endeavor to keep this relationship thoroughly sacrilegious."

Lavellan nodded again but he was smiling ever so softly. Dorian found himself thoroughly pleased by this development.

"In all seriousness, and on a much different topic, you seem dead on your feet," he noted. 

"I haven't slept. I can't sleep."

"I see." Lavellan's admission didn't come as a surprise. It was why he came over here and suffered through another heart to heart after all. He also came prepared with a potential solution knowing this. "Perhaps a drink will help? Varric has a few bottles of mead stowed away."

"Mead sounds good," Lavellan slurred, his voice wobbly from exhaustion. "Mead sounds great, actually."

Dorian chuckled again and gently pushed him in the direction of Varric. The companions hadn't moved, although Blackwall had joined their little group. They all looked up at their approach with a mix of elation and trepidation. 

Lavellan drooped down onto a rock quietly between Cassandra and Blackwall. 

Dorian winked at Varric, "perhaps some drinks?"

Varric twisted in his seat around and brandished a small keg. "Way ahead of you, Sparkler."

The soldiers of Adamant had quite the stockpile of strange goods hidden away, several kegs of mead being just a sliver. It was an uncommon alcohol in Tevinter, and Dorian couldn't say he particularly liked the strange semi-sweet drink, but Lavellan eagerly reached for tankard after tankard. 

Normally, it took more than a few to get Lavellan to any stage of inebreation. Instead, he quickly wound up leaning against Dorian's shoulder, relaxed and seemingly beyond the cusp of sleep. 

Varric took one look at the elf and the many empty kegs and nodded. "My work here is done."

"Indeed," Dorian nodded. "He'll be sleeping- well, more like unconscious for the night." 

"Like a baby," Varric observed. "A drunken baby."

"The perfect time to get him to his tent then." Dorian looked around. "Where is the Bull?"

"He said, and I quote," Blackwall replied, "'don't let me get in the way of the 'Vint taking Lavellan to bed.'"

"How kind of him," Dorian groused. "Is he not aware of how heavy Lavellan is? He's very heavy."

Dorian was tempted to take off some of Lavellan's armor before attempting to maneuver him to bed just to make him weigh a little less. Unfortunately he imagined dragging an underdressed and very inebriated Lavellan would garner some negative attention.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll manage," Cassandra said with a smirk. 

Dorian swore under his breath and got to work hefting a very limp Lavellan to his feet and nearly collapsing. He managed to half drag the elf to his tent and get him out of enough armor to sleep comfortably. Lavellan was about as helpful during this process as a wet rock. 

By the end of it, Dorian was about as exhausted and more than tempted to just slip between the warm furs and hog a bit of the bed himself. 

Instead Lavellan snuffled into his pillow and mumbled "Mahanon".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dunnn


	41. Lost and not yet Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which is gonna happen first me finishing this fic or da4 who knows
> 
> Side note: I finally made a tumblr for this fic, as well as for Dragon Age in general.
> 
> Look for AnarchyButDragonAge on Tumblr
> 
> Wips, chapter announcements, possibly even art, who knows

Dorian woke to a modest hangover and to the noise of an already active camp. He shuffled out of his thin bedroll and reluctantly got ready for what would hopefully be yet another uneventful march. They were still a miserable three days from Skyhold and he was quite ready to sleep in a proper bed and eat proper food and have a proper bath. 

How he missed being indoors. 

Arguably he could have spent some of the night in Lavellan's stupidly opulent tent, nestled in that luxuriously furry bed beside a beautiful furnace of a man. However…

Remembering the whispered name "Mahanon" sent a spike of something through his stomach.

He hadn't put much thought into the life Lavellan had before becoming the Herald but now it was all he could think about. Who was Mahanon? It sounded distinctly elvhen, but he wasn't sure the gender. Could Mahanon be a relative? A friend? A lover?

Dorian desperately hoped for anything but the latter option.

The curiosity burned at him. 

He had only been awake for less than an hour and his brain was already whirring with insecurity and concern. He should be happy that Lavellan was getting some of his memories from before the Conclave back- assuming this Mahanon was from that before. Instead he was selfishly fretting over what this could mean for his relationship with Lavellan. If he remembered some forgotten lover… 

Dorian shuffled to the nearest campfire with a bubbling pot beside it. Blackwall was standing beside it, stirring a blackened ladle and dishing out a nice steaming bowl of slop for a yawning Varric. Cassandra and Cullen were sitting across from them, sipping some tea and looking over various reports. Vivienne was peeling the rind from an apple with startling efficiency and cutting it into neat slices.

He sat heavily beside Vivienne and wordlessly accepted his own bowl of overboiled oats from Blackwall. What he wouldn't give for something,  _ anything _ else. He sipped at his tasteless breakfast sullenly.

Midway through his meal, Lavellan stumbled out of his tent squinting up at the sun and looking thoroughly disheveled. The Inner Circle all present gaped at him stupidly. He'd always been up before everyone- at least most people. Certainly, he was up before Dorian ever was. Seeing him be the last up and awake was a shock, though it shouldn't have been as much of a surprise.

Luckily he looked better than he had for the last few days, if rather hungover.

Lavellan wandered over to their fire rubbing at his eyes with the back of his scarred hands. He collapsed onto a crate beside Cassandra with a tiny noise, loud in the quiet around the fire. Blackwall shrugged and dutifully started filling another bowl and handed it over to Lavellan, who nodded his thanks. The bowl was empty in minutes.

"You know," Varric began, "I was beginning to think you were immune to hangovers."

"Wouldn't that be a blessing," Lavellan mused, licking his spoon obscenely. Vivienne tutted at him.

"There was a report last night of over a dozen small kegs of mead going missing." Cullen narrowed his eyes over his tin mug. "You two wouldn't have happened to hear anything, would you?"

"Me? Of course not. What would I even do with so much mead?"

"That's enough to supply a tavern for a week, certainly too much for an elf, a dwarf, a Qunari, and a few humans to get through in a night," Lavellan said, yawned, and thanked Blackwall with another nod as he refilled his bowl. "But I'll certainly keep an eye out for any pesky mead thieves."

"How noble of you, Inquisitor," Vivienne said with what could almost be humor. 

"Quite," Cullen added with a half smile.

If the Inquisitor was making jokes then he must have slept well for once. Dorian was happy for him, and happier to help, but his mood had been thoroughly soured by Lavellan's whispered name the night before. He had no right to be so caught up in this Mahanon-mystery and yet here he was. Still thinking about it. 

Sure, Lavellan had referred to him just yesterday as his lover, but… for how long? How serious was he?

Dorian had lovers before back in Tevinter in the sense that they had multiple clandestine trysts, sometimes in succession. He'd even spent about a month with one particularly handsome man before his exile. Of course it had been purely sexual and he had been little more than a pretty ornament sitting about his sprawling manor hidden from sight, but it certainly counted for something. He supposed. 

Romance in Tevinter was so romanticized that it had been reduced to just an obscure concept.

Gestures became hollow when one saw the machinations of the Game behind them, when it was all for keeping appearances. Romance back home was a mad scramble to show off and preen and climb your way up the ever-rising social ladder. Marriages were so often nothing more than political moves to the point where when a couple  _ did _ manage to find a connection it was seen as a wonder. His knowledge of romance and relationships boiled down mostly to what he had read and what little he had seen. 

He may have a skewed vision of what exactly romantic relationships entailed.

But he knew what he wanted- and could learn the rest. He was a quick study and more than willing to learn.

However, would Lavellan want the same things? Domesticity, intimacy, a deep connection to someone- Would he want any of that with him if he remembered this Mahanon? Surely another elf, one he had a pre-established rapport with, would hold more allure than a Tevinter man. 

He was unused to feeling such insecurity or inadequacy and it had him reeling.

Who was Mahanon? 

By the time the late noon rest came, Dorian was beside himself with curiosity and couldn’t stand the not-knowing any longer. He would even suffer through yet another heartfelt conversation if it meant having answers. He just hoped Lavellan could provide them- and that he could actually find the damned elf. After some fruitless searching amongst the resting camp he eventually buckled and found Cassandra, assuming the Seeker would know.

She pointed off towards a nondescript bunch of trees and sighed heavily. “The Inquisitor spotted some Prophets Laurel and went to collect it.”

“How exactly did he  _ spot  _ a cliff plant from the road?”

Cassandra shrugged. “I do not know how he finds things, and at this point I fear asking.”

Dorian supposed that was a fair point and wandered off towards the trees.

Sure enough after a few yards he spotted the bright red of Lavellan’s hair poking up from between a few mossy boulders. The elf looked up at his approach, smiling at him softly as he stepped around the rocks and muddy spots. He still had dark circles under his eyes, but he didn’t look like a dead man walking. Instead he just looked like a tired man making daisy chains from a vine.

“Dorian,” he greeted.

“Are you making flower crowns out of those poor plants?” Dorian asked first.

Lavellan chuckled, deft fingers curling the stems about themselves and making thick bushels of the vine. “It compacts them, makes it easier to carry large amounts as well as easy to hang and dry. It’s a potent restorative and good to have on hand.”

It did look like a startling amount of the plant now that he was looking closely. “Too bad it’s not good for keeping the stinging flies at bay. Ghastly things.”

“It would be nice certainly,” Lavellan nodded. He then winked and added, “it is great for hangovers though.”

Dorian laughed and automatically took Lavellan’s hand when he reached up, pulling him to his feet. His boots were missing. 

“Were you sent to go look for me?”

“Not this time. I came to find you of my own volition.” Lavellan made an appreciative little noise and grinned. “You are feeling much better I assume?”

“I am.” Lavellan wrapped a small length of twine around the base of the bushel and set it aside. “Certainly thanks to you.”

“Now now, no need to thank me. All I did was get you spectacularly drunk.”

The elf laughed. “It worked. I slept like the dead.” Lavellan took hold of Dorian’s hand again and tugged him closer. “I heard you managed to carry me to my tent.”

“It was more of dragging rather than carrying. Your armor makes you quite heavy.” Dorian glanced around, surprised that the guards had practically left Lavellan unattended. Leliana’s spies probably lurked close enough to soothe, however. “As fetching as it looks on you.”

“I suppose the tender sensibilities of the Inquisition would be damaged if you stripped me of it in public,” Lavellan mused, his other hand slipping to run fingers over the soft cotton of Dorian’s outer cloak as the Anchor hummed quietly in his palm. “Just know that I certainly don’t mind you divesting me of clothing in the future.”

“Such a lovely gift to give me.” Dorian swallowed, and nonchalantly slid his hands around Lavellan’s tapered waist, hidden by layers of leather and platemail. Now would be the time to bring it up- somehow. “One that I’m sure will have all manner of strapping men and pretty ladies frothing at the mouth.” Lavellan raised an eyebrow and hummed curiously. “Tell me why you couldn’t sleep.”

“Strange dreams,” Lavellan replied with a shrug. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the underside of Dorian’s jaw before continuing. “Very strange dreams. Mostly of places that I think I’ve been but don’t remember visiting.” 

Dorian tilted his head, and probed a bit further, “so your memories may be returning.”

“Perhaps.” He paused and frowned against Dorian’s neck. “There was a person in the last dream I had.”

“Oh? Someone you knew?” Dorian hoped he didn’t sound eager. 

“I don’t recall the name- or what they looked like,” Lavellan murmured. 

“Hopefully they aren’t a lover of yours. They’d be quite upset you forgot about them,” Dorian joked half-heartedly. So he didn't recall the name he muttered.

Lavellan laughed at least. “It would be hard to explain, that’s for sure. I don’t think I had anyone like that.”

“Now now, Inquisitor, no need to be so humble. You are a very attractive young elf.”

Said attractive young elf shushed him with pinkened cheeks. “What I meant was that I’ve received hardly any correspondence from my clan, and nothing from anyone who might supposedly know me.”

“Not even any letters from distant cousins?”

Lavellan shook his head. “There have been a few that were clearly ah- illegitimate attempts. But nothing of any merit. It makes me think that perhaps…”

“I may not have had anyone before I went to the Conclave. That everyone who could have known me has passed on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone still reading and especially to anyone who comments may the king of the nugs bless you during these dark times


	42. Soft Touches (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's late and I gotta be up early in the morning and it keeps storming every night but hey I finally finished this 4.6k chapter of smut and so many headcanons. Also I may not have edited this as well as I should have
> 
> Also my update schedule has completely fallen apart so uh I guess it's safe to say at this point this'll update whenever
> 
> Cw: hand jobs, piercings, oral sex

Dorian had never been so happy to see the towering walls of Skyhold rising over the snowy crest of the valley paths. He shivered from atop his sturdy mare and pulled his thick cloak tighter around his shoulders as the wind howled around him. The road through the valleys of the Frostbacks was always the hardest stretch of the journey home, and the hardest part of  _ leaving _ , but seeing Skyhold loom high atop the cliffs and peaks was a great motivator. How he couldn't wait to be back in that magically induced spring time, tucked beside a roaring hearth under at least three blankets.

Maker he was cold.

By the time the great pulleyed platforms raised him and several other dozen men up to the long bridge to the main gatehouse, he felt frozen solid. 

"Nice to be back," Dorian overheard one soldier say to another. "Can't wait for a time in those baths. I still got sand caked in my smalls."

"I'm more for Miss Layla's sweet rolls. Those baths will be packed. I'll wait."

Dorian frowned, eyeing the crowd in a new light. A lot of people went to that Blighted desert and there weren't many opportunities for baths along the way there or on the way home. Their combined stink likely left a ripe trail from here to Adamant. At this rate the already cramped baths beneath Skyhold were full from the first batch of people to cross the bridge. 

"You know," Varric said conspiratorially from atop his pony. "Word is the Inquisitor has his own personal bath."

"Does he now," Dorian replied, interest reluctantly piqued. 

"I heard it's really nice, big enough to fit a Qunari with room to spare. Some donation from an anonymous Orlesian noble."

"That sounds awfully fancy. I may just have to see this marvelous gift myself." It certainly gave him a rather thrilling idea.

Varric smirked, "you both can thank me later."

The two went their separate ways at the inner gate, Dorian taking his mare and Varric's pony to the stable so the dwarf could get to his writing. He apparently had a great many letters to reluctantly start on. Dorian sighed and thought of his own work, no doubt doubled in size by now as every agent dropped off their documents on the way to the Nightingale. His work was never done, especially where his idiotic countrymen were involved.

But that could wait until after he found the Inquisitor.

A feat that was rather easy now that they had returned to Skyhold, as Lavellan hadn't even made it up the stairs to the front doors of his castle yet. A few Mothers and Sisters of the Chantry as well as a few herbalists and alchemists were all trying to get Lavellan to be a tiebreaker for something. Upon his approach, it seemed to be regarding the restoration of the inner courtyard and garden. Those of the Chantry wished for a meditative garden where the faithful could reflect and pray. The herbalists had a more humble request, saying the inner courtyards had a steady temperature perfect for growing a wide variety of herbs and even some food all year. 

Lavellan, ever the practical thinker, told the herbalists to submit designs by noon the next day. Dorian almost felt bad- the Chantry women didn't stand a chance. 

"Inquisitor," Dorian greeted when the ladies dispersed, giving him a wide berth.

Any insult was lost immediately in the wake of Lavellan's smile. "Dorian. Are you off to the rotunda? I can walk with you, if you'd like."

"I was thinking of a bath first, a proper one with no fish involved." Despite the many bystanders standing a good distance away, Dorian moved closer, wary of eavesdroppers. "A little birdie with a startling amount of chest hair told me you had a tub of your own."

"Oh? Would you like to use it?" Lavellan replied easily.

"Actually," Dorian hesitated, wondering at what new cultural divide he was about to unearth. "I was hoping we could both take one. Together."

Lavellan's eyes went wide and his cheeks bled pink so quickly Dorian almost worried he was about to be slapped. Not for the first time he cursed his lack of knowledge regarding elves. Instead, Lavellan leaned in closer.

"You mean that?" Lavellan smirked, cheeks still flushed. "You aren't offering just to use my fancy tub are you?"

Dorian chuckled, "perhaps a little, but it certainly isn't the only reason. However, I would very much like you to be present. In fact, if it's not too forward of me to offer, I'd like to wash you." Lavellan arched an eyebrow. 

Public bathing was common in Tevinter, and the bathhouses dotting every corner of Minrathous were nothing short of awe-inspiring with their elegance and grandeur. The services offered at a bathhouse were lengthy and varied; everything from grooming and massages, to more carnal offerings. While the act of washing another was typically done by servants or slaves, it was also used as a gesture, a show of intent. 

Everything had a meaning in Tevinter, down to the oils used to clean one's toes.

"You wish to wash me?" Lavellan at least was smiling and looked more amused than anything. "I'll admit, that's the first time anyone has offered to do so. I'll ask the servants to start filling the tub, if you don't mind waiting an hour or so."

Dorian waved a hand, "no need for servants, not when you have a skilled and charming mage around to conjure water."

He was more worried about how he'd sneak into the Inquisitor's quarters, an issue solved by Lavellan taking one look at the group waiting at the top of the stairs, hands full of parchment and paper, and turning around. Lavellan led the way around the upper courtyard and through a nondescript door to the side. It went down a ways, turned a few corners, and then opened up into a wide and dark room. Providing he hadn't been completely turned around, this space lay between the hall of the war room and the inner courtyard. Scaffolding rose from the floor, and the torches were unlit save the ones above the catwalk- the landings and stairs that led to the Inquisitor's rooms.

"We haven't passed a single guard, and the door to your rooms is right up this ladder?"

"There's a little bit of a jump too," Lavellan replied before climbing up the scaffolding. "Few people know about this area, and Leliana usually keeps people in the halls leading here."

"Please tell me you can at least lock your door," Dorian pleaded.

"Yes, Cullen showed me how." Lavellan reached the top of the scaffold and easily leapt down to the catwalk below. 

"You don't actually lock your door, do you."

Lavellan caught Dorian's arms as he jumped down, with half the confidence of the elf and none of the grace, and steadied him. 

"The Dalish don't have doors to lock."

Dorian tutted anyway, letting himself be led through the heavy door and into the Inquisitor's room for the first time. It was an obscenely large space with high vaulted ceilings and swathes of stained glass above every window and balcony door. An ornate dresser stood in the corner, a heavy frame beside it to hold armor plating, and a cluttered desk stood opposite. Tall bookshelves framed the mahogany sides, the shelves nearly buckling from all the tomes and the various artifacts and objects peppered between. The glass halla he had been gifted, the enchanted amulet from Redcliffe, and a row of every paragon carved out of the soft mineral named for them, as well as a whole host of other strange souvenirs. 

A sprawling bed covered in furs and and silken sheets stood to the left, and to the right, close to the open balcony doors, was a frankly monstrous copper tub. A glyph of heat tinkled on the side and a basin of various oil bottles and salt bags flanked it. Whoever the mysterious Orlesian noble was, they had taste.

"Maker, half of these goods aren't even sold outside of Rivain," Dorian exclaimed, admiring a bottle of amber pearls. "Who in Thedas-"

"Madam de Fer," Lavellan replied with a conspiratorial smile.

"No!"

Lavellan laughed and set about removing his platemail. Dorian turned away to avoid the distraction and set about conjuring some water. The aerosol of the river below and the unnatural warmth of Skyhold made for a humid environment, making it easy to pull moisture from the surroundings. Given the size of the tub he still had to do quite a bit of frost magic delicately alternated with entropic fire.

By the time Lavellan was down to his inner leggings and tunic and had remembered the lock on his door (with only a little prompting) the tub was nearly three quarters full. 

"Mages are so useful," Lavellan said as he wrapped his arms around Dorian's waist.

"Have I inadvertently become your go-to for bath filling?" Lavellan’s contemplative hum was not reassuring. "Pour some of that amrita vein oil in, won't you?"

"Haven't you had enough of the desert?" Lavellan gave the bottle a sniff before dumping a large portion in. "Or do you have an unfortunate rash needing handled?"

"Is that actually what it's used for?" Dorian mused, finally satisfied with the water level. "I just know it does wonders for your skin."

Lavellan seemed contemplative but appreciative of the smell and stretched to plant a kiss on Dorian's cheek, and another on his jaw, until Dorian finally turned and took his lips with his own. He wasted no time in sliding his hands under the thin but tight material of Lavellan's blue tunic top, marveling at the lean muscle under his fingertips. 

"May I?" Dorian asked, tugging gently at the fabric. 

"Of course," Lavellan replied between gentle and insistent kisses. "Can I as well?"

"It would certainly make for a strange bath if I were fully dressed," Dorian chuckled, loosening the buttons and clasps holding the front of Lavellan's top closed. 

The last time he had seen this much of Lavellan's skin had been after the destruction of Haven, where it had been sallow to the point of blue and grey. The lines of his scars had been in stark relief, and still were despite the healthy glow he now sported. Dorian hadn't allowed himself to linger on what he had seen, Lavellan had been off-limits and untouchable. Now he could run his hands along each dip and groove, free to explore, encouraged to touch. He was almost dizzy with it. 

Lavellan was gentle but efficient with the many clasps and buckles of Dorian’s robes, his quick fingers making short work of the comparatively tricky Tevinter tailoring. Dorian let himself be stripped while he trailed his fingers over the ragged valleys slicing across Lavellan's hip. Not for the first time he wished he could hear the stories behind each mar in Lavellan's skin, but the ones he could recall pained him to think about. He would willingly set aside his curiosity until Lavellan was ready- if ever.

Suddenly the elf paused, staring with shock as Dorian's chest was fully exposed. Before he could ask what was wrong, Lavellan trailed his fingers over the golden loops piercing through Dorian's nipples, looking both worried and intrigued. "Do these hurt?"

"Not at all. I got them quite some time ago." He'd had other piercings too, in his nose and lips and ears. While not uncommon in Tevinter as a show of wealth, it tended to attract dangerous attention everywhere else, and he was quick to sell it all off on his way south. 

Lavellan looked unconvinced but moved to scratch his fingers through the curly hairs of his chest next, still eyeing the loops warily. Noting his distraction, Dorian decided to help him out and remove the sleeves and braces on his arms. While Lavellan’s skin was rent with scars and dotted with innumerable freckles, Dorian's skin was nearly blemish free, save for a single line along the inside of his right arm. The last gift Tevinter- his father- had given him before his flight to the south. 

But he wasn't here to linger over the past, he was here to indulge and pamper Lavellan after a strenuous trek across Thedas and a harrowing adventure in the Fade. The elf had barely slept, although he seemed to be doing better. Hopefully this would help him relax. Not to mention, he'd get to grope every inch of Lavellan's endlessly alluring body.

The elf was still preoccupied with trailing his fingers through the dark hair along Dorian's chest and looked to be thoroughly enjoying himself. This left Dorian to take care of the rest, which he did, first by unbuckling and sliding off his own boots- no easy task given Lavellan's attention turning back to the metal hoops, accompanied by his fingers this time. After some careful maneuvering and some steadying on Lavellan's part, Dorian was at least free to tug his trousers down and completely off. Lavellan hummed appreciatively and instantly began to scratch his fingers through the thicker albeit carefully groomed curls around his groin. Dorian rolled his eyes and tugged the tight leggings down from around Lavellan's hips. 

He paused. "Are you… not wearing any smalls?"

"No." Lavellan shrugged. "It's a strange custom, wearing smaller clothing under your regular clothing."

Dorian squinted. "Have you not been wearing smalls this entire time?" 

It was a naughty thought- the image of Lavellan running around wearing nothing but those sinfully tight elvish leggings.

"I didn't realize they were important." The elf huffed and finally set about helping with the removal of the last of his clothes. A blessing as Dorian was starting to feel a bit chilly. 

"We'll have to debate the purpose of small clothes later," Dorian declared. He stepped into the neglected tub, settled in, and beckoned with his arms wide. "For now come and join me."

Lavellan smiled and let himself be pulled down to sit into the warm water, his back flush against Dorian's chest.

"Comfy?" Dorian asked, pressing a kiss to the nape of Lavellan's neck. 

He was given an approving hum in response and Dorian smiled into the curve of the elf's neck and trailed kisses up to the soft underside of a twitchy pointed ear. He didn't take it too far, much to Lavellan's disappointment. That all could come afterwards.

Starting from the top, Dorian reached for one of the bottles of creamy soap he had seen as Lavellan settled against him. It was surprisingly soothing, lathering the floral soap into Lavellan's fine red hair in swirls and gentle scratches. Better still were the little noises that would escape as Lavellan melted like putty under his hands. He couldn't just toy with Lavellan's hair forever though, unfortunately.

"Let me return the favor," Lavellan said, voice a throaty purr as Dorian gently rinsed the soap from his hair.

"Oh?" Dorian would be lying if that didn't sound fantastic. "If you insist."

"I certainly do." Lavellan twisted to peck a kiss at the edge of Dorian’s lips. 

It took some wiggling despite the size of the tub, given their differences in height and the confined space. Dorian wasn't about to miss a chance to be pampered for the first time since leaving Tevinter, and certainly not when it was Lavellan doing the pampering. His delicate and incredibly strong fingers were gentle, the calluses making for an interesting texture. Not to mention the attention- nothing went unnoticed, no sound or twitch or sud.

"Creators, I don't know which is better," Lavellan muttered, "washing hair or having your hair washed."

"Both are certainly nice and relaxing." Dorian hummed contently as Lavellan finger-combed the water from his hair. "Of course there is still more to be done. Turn back around for me will you?"

Lavellan obliged and Dorian reached for a soft cloth and a bottle of oil and gently began to get to work. At his touch Lavellan immediately flinched then sheepishly apologized. Dorian chuckled, pressed a kiss to the top of his spine, and continued his ministrations.

Lavellan's back was a map of long scars, almost as if he had been whipped with thorns. Each line was the same dull red gauge as the mark on his cheek, likely a gift from his first time in the Fade. There was a pair of old raised knots just under his right shoulder, as if something had been lodged for some time before being healed. He suspected whatever it was had burrowed down to the bone. Dorian's touch was purposefully featherlight, but the edges seemed over-sensitive. It had Lavellan squirming, but he was quick to assure that it wasn't painful. 

"Just tender, I promise," he said. 

Dorian took him at his word and continued wiping the soft cloth as gently and slowly as he could, smoothing oil across Lavellan's skin that resisted the pull of the water and left it supple and fragrant. It also gave him ample opportunity to squeeze and run his hands over the swell of Lavellan's pectorals, around his tapered hips, and the firmness of his biceps. This might possibly be his best idea in a long time.

And he wasn't even done yet.

It took some more maneuvering, but Dorian slid around to face Lavellan, pushing the elf to lean back against the tub. Lavellan's skin was flushed pink from his cheeks and down his neck to his chest. Possibly just from the warm bath, but also likely in part that he was riled up enough to be fully hard under the water. 

"Enjoying yourself so far?" Dorian asked with a wink, situating himself between Lavellan's legs.

Lavellan huffed, but he was smiling. "I'd enjoy it more if you'd come closer," he said, punctuated with adorable grabby hands in Dorian's direction.

Dorian couldn't say no and let himself be pulled into a messy kiss, mindful of his proximity to Lavellan's erection. While he'd love nothing more than to take him in hand, he still had one last thing to do. It was hard to resist and stick to his plan with Lavellan's mouth against his and his calloused hands running over his shoulders and biceps. But he managed to pull away and settle back, lifting up one of Lavellan's legs both to pin him in place and to press a kiss to the side of his knee.

The elf had a truly sinful set of thighs and it would be a shame not to stop and admire them.

Lavellan pouted at him. "I'm beginning to think this is some kind of elaborate Tevinter torture method."

"Why so?" Dorian softly smoothed the oily cloth over the inside of Lavellan's thigh, sending a shiver across his blushing skin. The back of his hand just barely brushed against the elf's cock and the noise Lavellan made was somewhere between a whine and a growl.

"I've never been so aroused in my life," he huffed pitifully. 

Dorian laughed, getting started on Lavellan's other leg. "No need to fret. I'll be taking care of that too." 

Lavellan groaned, and then yelped as Dorian touched the bottom of his foot. They both froze- and then burst into giggles. 

"You  _ are _ a cruel man, ma'lin," Lavellan managed as soon as he was calm enough. "Touching absolutely everywhere except for the one place I need it most."

"Patience, it'll make it all the better later. In the meantime, these feet of yours deserve a little attention, don't you think?" Dorian winked, went back to Lavellan's foot and then paused. "Kaffas, how is your foot so… soft?" He'd expected the soles of Lavellan's foot to be leather, calloused and rough from the lack of shoes. Instead the skin was more smooth than the palm of his hands.

Lavellan shrugged, "elf magic, I suppose."

"Elf magic indeed," Dorian agreed before gently pressing his thumbs into the arch of his sole and massaging little circles into the firm muscles below. Lavellan jolted but quickly relaxed back with a deep and approving hum. He looked utterly heartbroken when Dorian finished.

Seeing Lavellan all bonelessly relaxed, skin shining with perfumed oil and flushed a soft pink, eyes closed but lips quirked in a pleased smile… "Someday, I'd like to treat you to the full bathhouse experience. You'd absolutely love it." 

It would be a long time before his homeland would be safe enough for that, however.

"I loved this," Lavellan replied. 

Dorian waved a hand, "it was hardly anything."

"I'm serious." Lavellan's pleased look bled into a sheepish grimace. "I also don't think I can get up."

Dorian chuckled and dutifully stood to help ease Lavellan out of the warm water. The chill was instantaneous and he groped for one of the rolled up fluffy towels beside the tub. He dabbed at his own skin half-heartedly before offering it to Lavellan who was silently appraising him with an intense look at odds with his relaxed swaying.

Lavellan moved slowly, accepting the fluffy towel he was handed. He tossed it aside with no preamble, ignoring Dorian's little noise of indignation in favor of crowding him back towards the bed. The elf's rough hands were all over, smoothing circles and lines over his hips, up and down his spine, and over the swelling cheeks of his ass. Lavellan all but attacked his mouth, nipping and sucking his lips and swiping his tongue-

Dorian fell back onto the incredibly plush bed with an inelegant "oof."

Lavellan crawled atop him and ran his right hand over the damp hair across his chest, fingers catching on the rings through his nipples. "I'm a lucky man to have you."

"You flatter me."

"And you," Lavellan pecked a kiss to Dorian's sternum before continuing, "spoil me."

Dorian wanted to disagree, instead he threaded his fingers through Lavellan's hair and cupped his scarred cheek. Lavellan turned his head just enough to press a kiss into his palm. In truth, he loved doting on Lavellan, novel as it was. He'd never had anyone like him before, and now that he had him (for as long as that may be), he didn't think he could go back to anything less. The pleasures of the flesh paled in comparison to the intimacy of what he had now.

A man who wished nothing more than to see him succeed and grow, who was equally as intelligent, who would listen even if he didn't agree, and who didn't mind and actually encouraged his curiosity, who cared as deeply as he did- 

"If it means spending more time in that frankly magnificent tub of yours, I'll be sure to spoil you every day. Perhaps with that lavender and Embrium scrub next."

Dorian felt that he was actually the lucky one. 

Lavellan laughed, "how generous." The Anchor crackled quietly into the bed as he scratched gentle lines down Dorian's chest. "I've been wondering…" his hand paused before it could reach Dorian's half-hard cock. "The question caused you some distress last time but I can't help but hope the answer has changed."

"Ah, yes, your desire to suck me off," Dorian replied with a grimace. "It's...it would be considered above your station," he explained weakly. Actually articulating such things made it sound rather silly, but back home, the more powerful you were…

"It's a good thing we put the titles and stations aside then, isn't it?" Lavellan grinned and gestured downwards. "May I?"

Dorian supoosed he  _ did _ make a promise...

"If you insis-ah!" Dorian shouted as Lavellan's mouth took him almost entirely as soon as the words left him. Both of the elf's rough hands were gripping his thighs, pushing them apart obscenely. Lavellan slipped Dorian's cock from his lips so he could chuckle into the soft skin of his inner thighs. 

"Venhedis," Dorian moaned, hips wiggling for anything now that Lavellan's mouth had moved on to suck and bite tender spots into his flesh. "Is this some sort of payback?"

"Maybe." Lavellan winked. 

Any reply fizzled away as Lavellan wrapped his lips back around his cock, his tongue swirling and pressing as he sank down. Dorian gripped the sheets, Lavellan's hair, and the shreds of his sanity in the wake of Lavellan's enthusiastic attention. He was pretty sure Lavellan was trying to suck his soul out of his dick, and was very close to succeeding. 

Lavellan rubbed his thumbs across the bite and kiss marks he'd left as he took Dorian down to the root, moaning softly around him. Dorian fought his hips valiantly, but couldn't help reigning in the noises spilling from his lips. They might have been words at one point, pleas and expletives and praise, but they had devolved into gasps and groans and shouts. He couldn't form a warning for Lavellan and instead tugged insistently at his hair and pushed at his shoulders. 

Lavellan simply redoubled his efforts to drive Dorian to madness with his tongue. He came with a cry, his back arching clear off the bed, and conjuring a swathe of spiky ice halfway to the window overlooking the upper courtyard. Lavellan didn't even flinch, swallowing him down with a smile on the corners of his lips, pulling away only when Dorian batted at him.

"Mercy! Mercy, you horribly naughty elf," Dorian gasped. 

Lavellan looked over at the ice smugly. "I'm going to take  _ that _ as a compliment as well."

"Yes, yes," Dorian huffed, sitting up and taking Lavellan's mouth with his own. It took a bit of manhandling and pushing to get Lavellan onto his back, the elf seemingly reluctant to part with his his lips for longer than a breath. "Now then, I do believe it's my turn."

He reached down and wrapped his hand around Lavellan's cock, catching the elf's pleased exhale with his lips. He was already leaking but Dorian conjured a bit of grease just for the extra glide, although it wouldn't last for very long. Lavellan likely wouldn't either- having been worked up for nearly half an hour now. 

Dorian kept up a steady rythmn with his hand as he peppered kisses across Lavellan's chest, sucking and biting marks to match the ones left between his legs. His unmarked hand went to Dorian's hair as the other wound into the blankets under him, the Anchor sparking in his palm. Judging by the noises Lavellan was making, and  _ loudly _ , he greatly approved.

"Dorian,  _ Dorian _ ," Lavellan gasped, his hips erratically rising to meet the mage's staff-calloused hand. 

Dorian looked up to see Lavellan's mouth fall slack as he spilled over his taut stomach. It was erotic enough to get him contemplating a round two- especially if what he heard about elves and refractory periods had any merit. But Lavellan went utterly boneless, looking sleepy as he got his breathing back under control. As tempting as it would be to keep going, it would be better to let Lavellan get some rest.

Pressing a kiss to Lavellan's flushed cheek he moved away, chuckling at the unhappy huff it earned him. He picked up the damp towel from earlier and gently wiped up the mess left on Lavellan's stomach, more than a little pleased with how the evening went and certain the elf felt the same. Dorian didn't bother trying to move him under the blankets, absurdly heavy as he was, so he had just draped one over him and tucked in the edges. 

"You should stay with me tonight," Lavellan said, yawning halfway through. He reached limply in Dorian's direction.

"We both know there would be very little sleeping done if I were to spend the night with you," Dorian replied with a wink. He took Lavellan’s hand anyway and pressed a kiss to the knuckles of his fingers. "I'll stay another night," he promised half-heartedly. Perhaps when he became more adept at sneaking in and out of the Inquisitor's quarters. 

Lavellan pouted but relented, slipping into a doze by the the time Dorian had gotten himself presentable enough to leave. That night, Lavellan would dream of the memory of Haven as told by the Fade, unbeknownst to all of the Inquisition save one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just two dudes bathing each other
> 
> Next is the start of my fave lil mini saga aka "Lavellan can't catch a break"
> 
> Side note: I have a tumblr for this fic and Inqy
> 
> AnarchyButDragonAge!


	43. Somniari

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started on this chapter then completely scrapped it three days before now. 
> 
> Also somehow I'm updating consistently on Wednesdays. I have no idea why this day somehow magically works considering time has lost all meaning and my schedule is about as rigid as a cooked noodle but hey 
> 
> Here's a chapter
> 
> Cw: swearing, violence

Dorian had fallen asleep in his chair. Again.

This was not unusual. 

The overstuffed moth-eaten thing had been his bed on more than one night and would likely remain so for many more. At first he had thought of asking for something less smelly and oddly hard in places and more recently upholstered. But the Inquisition's resources were better suited to other more practical things and he was quite certain the new quartermaster of Skyhold, while amiable, would likely throw out the request without a glance. Over time the wretched thing had grown on him, much like almost everything else here in the south. This chair had seen him so engrossed in his work that he didn't move for nearly a day and a half. It had taken a concerned Sera to drag him out of the alcove and to the pub. This chair had held him as he drank himself into a stupor late at night not long after his father apologized in that roundabout way of his. Lavellan had sat in it once while listening to him give a brief diatribe on the art of pyromancy in the Imperium. His face had scrunched up adorably as he shifted around trying to get comfortable. Vivienne had sat in it too, Sera had draped herself across the arms, and Varric had given him a cushion for it.

He was loathe to admit that he may actually love this chair.

Finding himself waking from what was supposed to be a quick nap to a quiet and empty Rotunda was not unusual. He'd spent the day combing over documents taken from Adamant, dodging questions as to why he and the Inquisitor both smelled the same, writing letters to Maevaris and a few other like-minded magisters, and helping Josephine come up with a suitable bribe for the most crotchety archivist in the Imperium. It was odd however, that not even a few scouts or night-owl mages were walking the second floor libraries. Even Solas was missing from his chaise on the bottom floor. 

No, what _was_ unusual was how the door on the lower floor of the Rotunda that led to the expansive main hall and throne room simply opened up to a different room. 

Specifically, the first floor of the Rotunda.

This was not how doors usually worked. Undeterred by the strangeness, in fact fueled by it, Dorian stepped through the door he had already walked through. The painted fresco was the exact same as the one in the room he had just left, although… had the wolves always been facing that way? And had they always had so many eyes? Dorian didn't stop to contemplate this as laughter bounced down from above.

The soft breathy pitch of it was unmistakably Lavellan. 

Curious, Dorian went back up the spiraling stone staircase. Lavellan laughed again, the warm, lovely kind that had his chest feeling tight and a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He did not smile when he reached the top of the stairs. 

Lavellan was pressed against the bookshelves outside his alcove, wearing the same fetching blue and gold tunic top as he had when Dorian caught sight of him earlier in the day. His arms were wrapped loosely around another man's neck, smiling happily and their foreheads touching. The man's hands slipped down, kneading and sliding over the tight fabric over Lavellan's ass. He hummed approvingly and kissed the man deeply. He looked utterly _smitten_.

The man had the same face as Dorian.

The shock of it was jarring enough to make Dorian fully aware. They were in a dream- the kind created by Somniari, and Lavellan was currently locking lips with a Desire demon wearing Dorian's face. This raised a few questions, such as who was the dreamer? Why had only Dorian and Lavellan been brought through?

"Dorian, ma vhen'an," Lavellan sighed, "this must be a dream."

"A good one I hope," the Desire demon winked, hands smoothing gentle lines along Lavellan's back and sides. " _Amatus_ , will you do something for me?"

Lavellan chuckled, smiling easy and soft. He looked unbearably fond and the sight had Dorian averting his eyes uneasily. "Name it."

"My, now this is quite the sight," Dorian interrupted, leaning against the stone archway nonchalantly. "The two most gorgeous men in Skyhold. What an utterly stunning pair we make."

Lavellan flinched back as though he had been burned, staring wide-eyed at Dorian in disbelief and with rapidly growing horror. "What-" the air in the Fade rippled around them.

"Your presence is unwelcome," the Desire demon hissed darkly. "Leave me and the Inquisitor to our fun."

"Oh? And what fun were you planning?" Dorian huffed. "Asking if you could wear him like a suit?"

Lavellan attempted to move away but the demon's grip tightened as it growled, otherworldly and monstrous. Uncanny given it still looked identical to Dorian, until it's mouth unhinged and revealed rows of terrifyingly sharp incisors. Lavellan froze and then moved seemingly on impulse.

He leveled a solid haymaker straight into the demons cheek, sending it flying into the railing with a resounding crack.

Dorian would have laughed at Lavellan _punching a demon in the face_ if only it wasn't wearing _his_ face. He made a little indignant noise instead.

"Fuck! I didn't-" Lavellan swore again, "I'm sorry? I'm very sorry."

"You didn't punch _me_ ," Dorian pointed out.

"Yes, well, I mean," Lavellan fumbled, raking a glowing hand through his disheveled hair. "It still looked like you."

The Desire demon growled again as it picked itself back up, angry and done with all pretenses. Dorian summoned his magic, always easier in the Fade, even in dreams, and quickly immolated it. It wasn't enough to kill, but the Desire demon shifted forms and slipped away quickly with a howling screech. 

The bookshelves around them began melting away, leaving puddles that dripped and created colorful waterfalls off the edge of the landing. Dorian's beloved chair began to float ominously as the shadows of crows circled overhead. Lavellan jolted away from the bookshelves he had been near, stepping back against Dorian's work desk. At his touch the wood warped and splintered like it had aged a thousand years. 

Suddenly it dawned on him who the Somniari was, as impossible as it was.

Lavellan wasn't a mage. He didn't have a magical bone in his body. But he did have the Anchor- not a magical bone but certainly a magical thorn in his side.

"I don't know what's happening," Lavellan said weakly, twitching away from the ruined desk. 

"I have a few ideas," Dorian stepped forwards, wordlessly offering his hand. "However, such things can wait until we get out of here."

Lavellan took his hand without hesitation, holding tightly as the other wrapped nervously around his middle fisting in his velvet tunic. "I don't know how."

"No, I don't suppose you would." Dorian didn't know any Somniari personally, but he had a Harrowing once, an artificial version of a dreamwalk. Sometimes mages simply couldn't find their way out. Dorian obviously was not among them. "This has happened before, I imagine," likely the reason for how tired he was since Adamant, "how have you woken each of those times?"

Lavellan glanced downwards, "I've died- or was killed by things. Sometimes knocked unconscious."

Dorian blinked slowly, taking a deep breath in an effort to reign in his horror. "Right. That is- we won't be pursuing that method." Lavellan nodded, staring doggedly at the dragon motif of his shoulder clasp. "There is a way to wake you from the outside. Do you trust me?"

"Of course," came Lavellan's instant reply, eyes finally looking up his way. 

Dorian nodded and swallowed tightly. "I'll need to leave you here for a time." Lavellan's expression didn't change save for a slight look of shock, but his grip tightened slightly and his eyes fell back to the ground. The world around them shuddered and howled as if in protest. "I'll need to wake you from outside, I can't do it here." 

Gently he cupped Lavellan's cheek, lifting his head and pressing a kiss to his temple. If only Lavellan's fear wasn't twisting the Fade around them, they could meet here and escape the prying eyes, the judgment of others, they could just be together. He understood well that the Fade was the very last place Lavellan ever wanted to be. "I won't leave you here, I promise."

Lavellan nodded tightly. "Hurry."

"Of course." He pressed another kiss to Lavellan's cheek. "Try not to fret too much at my absence, you'll turn into one of Varric's pining maidens."

Lavellan snorted, "Swords and Shields isn't near as bad as you make it out to be." His grip lessened a fraction.

"No. It's much worse." Dorian stepped back, reluctantly letting go of Lavellan's hand and willing himself awake.

Reality came back in a flood of back pain and quiet chatter from bird and person alike. He was in his chair, an open tome still draped across his lap. Dorian stood in a rush, all but tossing the book onto his seat, and swept from his alcove. It was the dead of night and few people were out and about. 

That didn't stop Dorian from flagging the first agent he came across. "Find me Madame de Fer and the Seeker and send them to the Inquisitor's quarters." He glanced down at the empty first floor of the Rotunda and tsked. "Solas too." 

The scout looked confused but rushed off regardless.

Dorian then headed straight for the Inquisitor's rooms. A pair of guards stood outside the heavy door, standing stiffly to attention at his approach. Dorian paid them little mind and went for the handle, freezing their feet in place with a snap of his fingers as they went to move.

"I really don't have the time for this, arrest me later," he said in way of apology, breezing through and all but fade-stepping up to the inner door. 

It was unlocked, and on any other day that would have upset him. Today he was mostly just thankful for the oversight. Quick as he could, Dorian went through the door and up the little set of stairs, unsure of what he was about to walk in on. 

The hearth was burning low, casting the room in flickering orange that bled into glowing green. Lavellan lay in a mess of silk and fur, a small shape against the vast emptiness of the massive bed. The Anchor flared, lightning arcing from it and tracing currents up his arm. There were streaking marks burned into the sheets and into his flesh from the pulsing magic. Lavellan didn't even flinch, lost in his Fade-dreams.

If it weren't for the ragged panting breaths cutting through the quiet of the night, Dorian would have assumed he had come too late. 

Cautiously throwing up a barrier before approaching, Dorian strode to the side of the bed and pulled his mana to his fingertips. Lavellan's brow was furrowed, lips parted and sweat beaded at his temples. Dorian soothed his thumbs over Lavellan's cheeks, more for his own comfort than for the elfs, before sending a slight shock into Lavellan's mind- just enough to wake. 

He hoped.

He hadn't exactly done this before.

Lavellan shot up with a gasp, panting and shivering as he came to his senses. He looked at Dorian and flinched.

"Is this- am I out?" He frowned, eyeing the mage warily. "You aren't another demon are you?"

"Remind me to teach you how to identify demons," Dorian drawled, mostly unperturbed. "I'll tell you now it doesn't involve asking them."

Lavellan huffed, fidgeting restlessly as he allowed Dorian to take his arm and inspect the lightning burns as well as the thin white lines he noticed under the skin. Mercifully the Anchor had settled down, but the burns were quite painful looking. "Why was I in the Fade?"

Dorian ran his fingers over the edges of the worst burn, feeding healing magics into the flesh. It would likely need a tonic. "Do you know what Somniari are? Dreamers as some call them." 

"Mages who walk in the Fade when they sleep," Lavellan replied, eyebrows scrunching. "I'm not a mage."

"No, no you are not," Dorian chuckled. He'd healed the worst of it, and curiously Lavellan hadn't even flinched. "But you do have a mysterious and powerful magical artifact embedded in your body. My guess is that it's turned you into a sort of artificial mage."

"That makes sense in an outlandish sort of way." Lavellan looked down at the Anchor and hummed thoughtfully. He stood and slipped on a pair of leggings and Dorian idly cataloged the fact that the Inquisitor slept in the nude for later. "Traveling to the Fade must have unlocked something in it, strengthened its connection to the Fade."

"Or weakened the Veil around you. We will need to look into it more to know for certain."

A knock came from the door and Dorian slipped away to open it as Lavellan meandered to the fireplace. Madame de Fer stormed past Dorian looking as polished as ever, followed closely by Solas, a bedraggled Cassandra, and Leliana. 

"I should be offended you did not invite me," Leliana said coyly.

"Only because I knew you would come anyway," Dorian replied, closing the door and locking it for good measure.

Lavellan didn't seem surprised to see the group, turning and addressing them with no preamble. "I seem to have become a Somniari, a dreamer, thanks to the Anchor. Dorian saved me from a demon in the Fade and got me out."

Solas looked entirely too pleased. "You have joined the ranks of the I've'an'virelan."

"The Inquisitor going into the Fade and potentially being possessed by demons is alarming and cause for concern," Vivienne said darkly. "Tell me, when did this begin?"

"After Adamant, though exactly when I'm unsure."

"The Anchor is bound to the Fade. It acts as a key to the Veil, opening and closing it," Solas explained. "It is a bridge between worlds. One you may now freely cross."

"The Inquisitor cannot be romping around in the Fade every night. He has not had the mental training needed to resist demons and will be easy prey." Vivienne took a seat on the chaise beside the rumpled bed. "A way must be found to seal off this bridge without interfering with the Mark itself."

"I agree," Cassandra added. "It is too dangerous to leave alone. The Anchor is necessary to seal the rifts, but we cannot endanger the Inquisitor or its power."

"Lavellan can easily be taught the mental fortitude necessary to resist a demons influence," Solas countered. "To walk the Fade is a gift, a source of knowledge."

Lavellan shook his head. "It is no gift for me. I do not wish to walk in the Fade ever again." His hand trailed absently over the deep scar on his cheek. 

Solas seemed ready to argue but hesitated, nodding deferentially. "As you wish, da'mis." He slipped from the room, his point made.

"Now the question is how we can reign in the power of the Anchor safely and without compromise?" Leliana asked.

"Maevaris knows of a dreamer formerly of Kirkwall. I can get in contact. Perhaps she can send me some research materials as well," Dorian offered. "The dreamers were oh so big in Tevinter once, as you all know."

Leliana nodded, "I can have my agents facilitate the movement of supplies."

"I fear such methods will take some time, time which we do not have," Vivienne interjected. "The Anchor dragged you into the Fade before and will do so again the next time you sleep, Lavellan dear. It was chance that you brought Lord Pavus into the dream with you. It is no guarantee that it will happen again."

"You have a solution in mind?" Lavellan asked as he turned from the fire. 

"The Anchor has given you a connection to the Fade. We simply need to cut that connection. A tincture of magebane should suffice."

"That might just work, barbaric as it seems," Dorian muttered. "Maybe. It might also just give you diarrhea."

"Honestly I'm willing to give just about anything a shot," Lavellan sighed. 

"So it is settled then." Leliana nodded to the remaining group.

"For now." Cassandra huffed. "I will fetch Templars just in case."

The three ladies swept from the room, leaving Lavellan to stand by the fireplace and for Dorian to linger awkardly to the side. 

"I'll admit," Dorian started. "You becoming a Somniari was rather unexpected. It makes me wonder what new oddity will be next."

Lavellan shot him a tired smile, "perhaps I will be able to summon nugs next. Leliana would be excited."

"That would be incredibly adorable." Dorian settled onto the edge of the plush bed. "The mess would be atrocious."

"To be honest they make me a bit uncomfortable now, after Varric told me to look at their feet." He paused. "Or are they hands?"

"The dwarf strikes again, I see," Dorian huffed. 

A brisk knock followed by the door swinging open interrupted as Vivienne strode back into the room. In her hands was a small phial a sickly blackish green color.

"Now then. Typically magebane has little effect on those with no connection to the Fade." She swirled the liquid before offering it to Lavellan. "It is a potent sedative, regardless. More so for those with magic."

"I suppose I'll be sleeping deeply tonight then." He unstoppered it and gave the tincture a sniff, his nose crinkling at the pungent odor.

"It will certainly keep you under through the rest of the night," Vivienne said, leaving as quick as she had come.

Dorian admired her efficiency.

Lavellan sniffed the tincture again and frowned but downed it anyway. His face scrunched, looking disgusted yet contemplative at the taste.

"It's probably a bit… unseemly of me," Lavellan muttered, staring down at the phial he swirled in his hands. "But could you stay?"

Dorian couldn't bear to say no, worried as he was. He could sneak away later. "Of course."

Lavellan smiled up at him, "thank you."

"I should be thanking you. This bed is heavenly," Dorian preened internally as Lavellan chuckled, setting the phial down and slipping his leggings off. He wormed his way under the many blankets and furs, yawning furiously all the while. Dorian was still fully dressed, but remedied it easily, folding his robes on the chaise. He slipped down to his smalls and slid into the other side, an arms distance away from Lavellan. Already the elf's eyes were drooping.

"That Desire demon," Dorian questioned and Lavellan hummed. "You called it something in elvhen."

"You heard?" Lavellan’s eyes were closed and his breathing slowing. He still blushed.

"The Rotunda still echoes fiercely, even in the Fade."

"So it does. It means 'my heart'," Lavellan explained sluggishly.

"Oh," Dorian said quietly. Lavellan had fallen asleep leaving him to marvel at his growing adoration. Gently, he scooted over and wrapped Lavellan in his arms, tugging until he was tucked close. The elf hummed contently, snuggling closer.

To say Dorian was surprised was an understatement- and he hoped Lavellan would continue to surprise him in such wonderful ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solas grumpily sitting at his desk going "i coulda had a fade walking buddy >:("


	44. Fallout (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I actually finished this chapter Tuesday, but hey. 
> 
> Cw: off screen sex, feelings, slight homophobic overtones courtesy of Tevinter? Not actually sure what to call it.
> 
> So much in game dialogue...

Dorian woke as the sun filtered through the beveled glass windows, reflecting off the Frostbacks, painting the world in soft light and faint rainbows. The sparrows that called Skyhold home chirped and the sounds of the courtyard murmured below. It was early, certainly earlier than he expected or would normally be awake, and he stretched. 

Beside him, Lavellan snoozed on, face pressed into the pillow and breaths coming even and deep.

He had stayed the night, thrillingly uneventful as it was, and now he was finally faced with the set of options he'd agonized over until deep in the night. Should he slip away, while the morning was young and it would be easy and inconspicuous? He remembered the way down the scaffold and through the hall, nobody would notice him, except of course Leliana. She assuredly already knew where he was and hopefully handled the guards he froze last night. It would be embarrassing to be arrested after leaving the Inquisitor's quarters.

But that option would leave him unfulfilled and Lavellan to wake alone.

He could just stay until Lavellan woke then, disoriented as he'd likely feel and for as strange as Dorian would find it all. He'd never had a morning  _ with _ someone where feelings were involved. Even his month-long rebellion had been impersonal and left him sleeping elsewhere almost every night. Sure he'd done things in the morning with people, sometimes multiple things and multiple people, but nothing like this. His dreaded morning afters never came, since they tended to be immediately after. But what this promised...

He wanted more. 

Dorian trailed his fingers along Lavellan's cheek and into his hair, brushing the tip of his pointed ear and sending it twitching away. He looked peaceful for once, the furrow gone from between his brows and his face slack. Being knocked out by potent sedatives would certainly do that, he supposed. 

He wanted to wake beside Lavellan again, without the looming threat of demon possession and unstable magic.

The magebane was at least effective it seemed, and the Anchor was reduced to nothing more than a faint glow. The last time Dorian had inspected the Mark it had been an angrily cracking tear that he got a cursory glance at in an apocalyptic dungeon. Now as he looked, it was nothing more than a sickly green spot under the skin of Lavellan's palm, the flesh above and around it a burned mass of scar tissue. Trailing translucent lines stretched from fingertip to halfway down his arm, thinner than the narrow blue paths of blood vessels. It was curious, and he committed the map of them to memory, hoping an anatomy manual might help. Gently he set Lavellan's hand down and continued his idle caresses. 

His decision was made, had been for some time ago, and now came the difficult part.

Eventually Lavellan made a small noise, face scrunching up before his eyes cracked open sluggishly. He stared listlessly at Dorian for a second before coming to a surprised and pleased realization. 

"Oh," he mumbled, grinning widely. "You stayed."

"You asked me too," Dorian replied. "I take it the magebane worked? No wandering about in the Fade?"

"Well enough, I think," he hummed, gradually coming back to himself. "No dreams at least." He flopped his arm over Dorian's waist and wiggled uselessly in an attempt to snuggle closer. "Not even sure if I would call it sleeping."

"I'm afraid actual sleeping is firmly off the table for now," Dorian grunted, taking mercy on the elf and tugging him up against his side. He was absurdly warm. "You'll have to make do until either you can properly identify a demon and leave the Fade without dying, or we reign in that pesky Anchor of yours."

Normally a death in the Fade would have disastrous consequences, but the Anchor seemed to circumvent them. It was a single strange, small mercy. He'd need to do more research into why and how, and to send a letter to Mae and scour his library for any mention of Somniari and their experiences. There were a few tomes he knew would be sold in Val Royeaux that he could requisition, and perhaps some more from the stack of books recovered from Haven. There was much to do and the magebane wouldn't last forever. It was easy to build a resistance to it, a common practice in Tevinter although he was unfamiliar with it. He did know that it was also a good way to ruin one's kidneys and was a poor replacement for sleep. Eventually Lavellan would succumb to a proper rest and his mind would again wander to the Fade. With how thin the Veil was here, the next time would not be so fortuitous.

He ran his hands down the length of Lavellan's spine and the elf nuzzled deeper into the crook of his neck. "Don't you fall asleep on me," he admonished.

"I won't," Lavellan promised with a yawn. "Maybe. I can think of a few things that might wake me up, however." 

"Oh?" Dorian chuckled and pushed Lavellan onto his back, settling between his knees and admiring the way it made the elf blush. He was almost desperate for a distraction, an excuse to procrastinate. "I always do appreciate a good romp in the mornings." 

"I was thinking breakfast but this is much,  _ much _ better," Lavellan murmured, suddenly very awake and aware.

"I'm sure we can manage both before anyone comes knocking," Dorian leant in for a kiss, willingly received and enthusiastically returned. 

"So," he began, peppering Lavellan's cheeks and lips with pecks as he summoned the words he spent a ridiculous amount of time stringing together. It was certainly now or never.

"It's all very nice, this flirting business." Lavellan hummed in agreement. "I am, however, not a nice man. So, here is my proposal." Lavellan eyed him curiously, readying a disagreement that Dorian could practically taste, but he wasn't done yet. He shushed the elf with a kiss. "We dispense with all the chit-chat and move on to something more primal," Dorian ground their hips together and Lavellan groaned appreciatively. "It'll set tongues wagging, of course, not that they aren't already." 

"Of course," Lavellan agreed, chasing after Dorian's mouth, "half of what this bloody Inquisition does is gossip."

Dorian laughed and manhandled Lavellan's legs up and out of the way as he slid his smalls down to his knees. He regretted not following Lavellan's model and leaving them behind before sleeping. "I'm feeling incredibly generous this morning. Tell me what you would like."

Lavellan hooked one muscular calf to pull Dorian closer and wrapped his arms loose around his shoulders. "Anything as long as it's with you," Lavellan smiled, soft and fond. 

"The things you say with that golden tongue of yours," Dorian tsked. Inwardly he preened, stomach doing that now all too familiar warm flippy thing. "Allow me to introduce you to a Tevinter technique I learned from a particularly saucy courtesan called 'Taming the Abyssal High Dragon with a Thousand Strokes'."

"Color me intrigued," Lavellan replied coyly. "I'm assuming the 'Abyssal High Dragon is my-"

"Your cock, yes."

"Ah, intrigued  _ and _ aroused." Lavellan grinned and waggled his eyebrows. "We have an hour until I'm fetched, will that be enough time?"

"Oh it'll be  _ plenty _ just you wait."

It was hard to pull away from Lavellan and his sinful mouth, busy nipping and sucking his lower lip, and from his hands smoothing languid trails down his spine. They were both still breathing heavy, the combined mess growing tacky against their bellies, and his muscles screamed in protest. He wanted nothing more than to curl up beside Lavellan and waste the day away, his research pushed until later. Instead he stood and stretched to ease some of the nervous tension building in him like steam.

The uncertainty nagging at him had reached a crescendo the night before. He needed to know where they stood, what he meant to Lavellan, who called something wearing his face 'his heart' with unfettered sincerity, who looked at him with such fondness.

"I rather like your quarters," he said, forever unable to get to the  _ damned point _ . It was hard to tell where the defense mechanism ended and sheer habit began.

"Do you now?" Lavellan hummed, looking content as a cat as he stood, stretched, and wobbled for just a moment as he went to wet a towel.

"Don't misunderstand," he turned to face Lavellan who was staring intently at his ass. Dorian refused to be distracted or to falter- not yet at least. "I'm not suggesting we move into mutual domesticity… I just like your appointments." They'd had several trysts now, several more talks where they skirted the edge of this conversation, but never had they established anything. Hopefully this time would change that- preferably in a beneficial way. Worriedly, he began to babble, "not that I couldn't suggest some changes. Your tastes are a little austere."

He didn't know if he could bring himself to leave without a fight at this point- but he would if asked. 

Lavellan raised an eyebrow, his movements slowing. "You wish to change things?"

Dorian slumped. "No, no that's not what I wish."

"What do you wish for then?" Lavellan asked, gentle as always, his hand rested in the small of Dorian’s back.

"There is something I want." desperately so but to actually ask was… "I'm curious where this goes, you and I. We've had some fun." Plenty of it. More than he could ever have expected. "Perfectly reasonable to leave it here and get on with the business of slaying Archdemons and such."

"Is that what you want? If it is…" Lavellan's voice was small and Dorian regretted it. "If it is, tell me."

"I like you," Dorian admitted. "More than I certainly should, and more than might be wise. If we end it here, I'll walk away… I won't be pleased, but I'd rather it be now than later."

Lavellan slid his arms around Dorian's waist and tucked his head between his shoulder blades, a quiet presence against his back. 

Eventually he spoke, "I don't want to end things between us. I like what we have, I'd like even more."

Dorian exhaled, relaxing into Lavellan's arms, the relief almost too much. He was surprised, awed, but he shouldn't have been, should he? And now he was almost at a loss. Where did they go from here? He had only thought of what to do if he was sent away, but Lavellan wanted him to stay. What happened now?

"I ah- I didn't scare you off, did I?" Lavellan muttered into the space between Dorian’s shoulder blades, reminding him that a response was needed.

"I was expecting something different, is all," he replied quietly. "Where I come from anything between two men is about pleasure, accepted but taken no further." Anything that got in the way of creating the next generation was seen as abhorrent, political suicide. "You learn not to hope for more, you'd be foolish to."

Lavellan seemed to contemplate this, nuzzling his cheek against Dorian's back. "To be honest, I assumed we had already established something more serious," he mumbled sheepishly.

"Cultural differences, I suppose."

"I want this to be more than just for pleasure. I like being with you and hearing you talk. I like looking over my shoulder and seeing you there." Lavellan paused and almost shyly added, "I don't want you to walk away. I'd rather you foolishly hope for more with me."

"The things you say." Dorian twisted in Lavellan's arms, facing his blushing but unbending elf and shook his head. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips and that warm fuzzy feeling in his chest blossomed and  _ burned _ . He'd never had anyone say such things to him before and mean every word of it. "Truly?" Lavellan nodded. "I certainly hope you are prepared for the scandal about to be unleashed by our coupling." Dorian cupped Lavellan's pink cheeks. "If you'll have me."

"I thought you'd never ask," Lavellan grinned, squeezing them flush together tightly.

"Oh you know, I do so love to play hard to get." He felt almost giddy. "And now I'm got."

"And I've got you," Lavellan murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of Dorian's lips, the both of them grinning dopily.

It was a feeling that carried through the morning as they both dressed haphazardly, helping each other if just to grope and caress. Dorian was beside himself, unbelieving that he was allowed to do this everyday if he so wanted- because Lavellan wanted him too. As they wandered to Varric's table and ate honey cakes and fruits for a late breakfast, Lavellan relaying to Varric the newest odd thing to happen to him, Dorian imagined another breakfast together. It was thrilling, almost terrifying in scope. He'd never been able to dream of such things, but now… 

It wasn't until a summons came for the both of them, to a meeting attended by many mages, Chantry figures, a few scholars, and even what few Templars were left, all discussing various possible remedies, that his happiness shattered like glass. Reality was cruel, and it crashed down like a cold wave, a not so gentle reminder that it is foolish to want what you cannot have.

Lavellan looked up from the list created with dread, his voice a quiet echo in the vast war room. "The Rite of Tranquillity is on this list."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dunnnnnnn
> 
> Will they ever be happy? 
> 
> Probably not because Thedas is a terrible place to live.


	45. Fade Theory and Sausage Eggs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posting this a whole day early since the next chapter is gonna be long and dramatic and this is gonna be all the happy fun times you get until this lil arc is over
> 
> :)
> 
> Don't say I never spoil you

Dorian didn't bother slamming the door behind him as he strode from the war room. 

The supposed top minds of Skyhold and a few had the gall to suggest the Rite of Tranquility for a  _ 'solution' _ . ' _ A last resort' _ they called it. Dorian knew all too well what such words truly meant, how twisted they could become, what damage they could do. He wasn't surprised at those who were vehemently in favor of such barbarism- those who were militantly pro-Circle, who assumed mages were liable to pop out demons at any moment. It would indeed be catastrophic if Lavellan became possessed, as a demon could easily use the Anchor to reopen the Breach. But the Rite of Tranquility was far from the answer, or only option. If only he could reveal that it may not even  _ work _ . 

He also wasn't blind to the other, darker reason in favor of a more malleable, Tranquil Inquisitor. The fact that it was high upon that list was proof enough.

Dorian hoped his disgust was palpable.

Lavellan had slipped away nearly an hour and a half before, his face pale and hands trembling. Nobody fought for him to stay and a number of them simply acted as if it hardly mattered whether he was there in the first place. A faceless weapon of the people to shape as they wished in the name of security. They had discussed the Rite as if it wouldn't strip him of everything he was, and in front of him no less.

Dorian was furious, disappointed, repulsed, worried… 

There wasn't much time before the faction in favor of the Rite gained enough steam to truly push the issue- not like Cassandra would even entertain it- or become impatient and create mischief. He was determined not to let it come to that.

The guards outside the Inquisitor's quarters didn't bother stopping him this time, straightening and stepping aside warily at his approach. Dorian wasn't sure if it was due to his casual use of magic or Leliana's influence, but he didn't dwell on it. 

Lavellan's door was unlocked, as per usual (or so he was beginning to suspect), and the rumpled bedsheets from the morning had been replaced and the hearth kindled with sweet hickory logs. Lavellan's desk had been cleared, the clutter moved to a pile on the floor in favor of leaning stacks and sliding rows of books that took up almost the entire surface. Large swathes of Lavellan's towering bookshelves were emptied, the books everywhere but on the shelves. In front of it all stood Lavellan, skimming through a book in his shaking hands and wiping at his eyes. He frowned, shook his head, and added it to the mess on his desk. 

"Lavellan?" Dorian asked hesitantly, wary of interrupting whatever the elf was doing.

He startled, and stiffened, wiping at his eyes before turning. "Dorian," he mumbled, red-rimmed eyes fixed somewhere to the side, "sorry, I didn't hear you enter." He was closing off, about to slip into his silence, and Dorian would have none of it. "Now isn't the best time."

"No, it certainly isn't," Dorian crossed his arms, unwilling to be dismissed and making an unspoken threat to pry down Lavellan's silent walls should he put them up. "Cassandra managed to placate the more vocal of the bunch, so it's not as pressing an issue for now. More importantly, are you alright?"

Lavellan laughed, or made a choked noise somewhere close to it. There was a long pause before he spoke again. "No, but I guess when I'm- when I'm a Tranquil I certainly will be, won't I?" He turned back to his books and shook. 

"Nobody is going to make you Tranquil. It's not even going to be an option," Dorian declared with more force than he felt and certainly with more authority than he had. He stepped close enough to place his hand in the space between Lavellan's shoulders. "We'll find a solution."

Lavellan nodded tightly, wiped at his eyes again. He hesitated for a long moment before he pointed to a smaller stack of books on the ground. "Those are all the books I've found so far that mention Harrowings. There's one that talks about Dreamers as well."

"A fine start," Dorian replied, grabbing the first book from the stack and choking. "This is a first edition of the  _ White Spire Apprentice _ -"

"Madame de Fer gave it to me to understand Circle life. It's horrible."

"Oh, of course it is. These southerners and their Circles… they leave much to be desired."

"The Dalish get by just fine without Circles or Harrowings or Templars or Rites of Tranquility," Lavellan grumbled. "We have our stupid cases, sure. There will always be blood mages and idiots summoning demons, but no need for cages- for Tranquility."

"You only have three mages per clan though, do you not?" Dorian asked, poking through more of the stacked books like a child in a treat shop.

"Typically. It's mostly to keep Templars away, but clan Lavellan has five mages currently. Clans will send excess mages to others who may need a First or Second, although some hang onto them. Some mages may be killed or left to the wilds, but it is not a standard practice." He huffed at another book and set it on the desk. "It does make this difficult though. I was not taught anything regarding demons and the Fade. Or maybe I just don't remember it."

"I imagine as someone with no magic, you likely weren't taught," Dorian slipped a few books from the table and set them aside to read later. "In Tevinter… well they are quite upfront with how many demons you will likely encounter. Magisters summon them or mages become abominations, sometimes they simply slip into the world. The Veil in Tevinter is spotty in places- hold onto that compendium!" Lavellan paused and handed the heavy volume over to the mage. "There are a great deal of interesting runes and glyphs in that, possibly ones we can use." Lavellan nodded. "Other than Harrowings and Somniari, there are wards we can look into as well."

"I thought of looking into the magebane too. It worked well," Lavellan added. "Although I couldn't feel my legs for a half hour upon waking."

"All fine ideas." Dorian surveyed the bookless shelves, the small stack beside the desk, and Lavellan's slumped shoulders. "Right then. Shall we get to work?"

Dorian took over the more intensive sounding of Lavellan's books. He didn't doubt the elf's intelligence but magic theory only gets you so far without actual magical talent. He left the runes and biographies to the elf, who was both thorough with his reading and quite quick at it- provided it was written in the Trade tongue. It was the only language he could actually read.  


Vivienne dropped by not long after they started with a satchel of magebane flasks, an Orlesian herbalist manual, a Genitivi almanac, and a few books regarding Harrowings. Varric took over writing letters to Mae and to Feynriel, the half-elf Somniari from Kirkwall (whom he had met but never mentioned, much to Dorian's indignation). Leliana brought her own procurement of books and Fiona stopped by with the same. When all was said and done, they had about forty books to go through- and they hadn't even touched Dorian's library.

He tried not to worry about time constraints.

Vivienne helpfully informed them that they had a weeks worth of magebane in stock and it would be longer until more would arrive. Unfortunately the Chantry, irritated at Lavellan's continual snubs and heretical disposition, would likely not wait so long. Lavellan had the favor of the nobles and average folk alike, but the Inquisition was on thin ice with much of the Chantry still, and they ultimately held a great deal of sway.

"A rune of demon expulsion does me a fat lot of good," Lavellan griped, head pillowed on Dorian's thigh and the rest of him sprawled on the bed. "It won't carry into the Fade."

"Not unless you consciously bring it through," Dorian frowned. "I think. These Somniari are terribly dull. Not a one has experimented with such things."

"What about this one?" He twisted the book around to show the diagram and Dorian froze. "It seals the Veil off, so it can cut my connection to the Fade."

It was a glyph Dorian had seen only a few times before back in Tevinter, on collars looped around the necks of enslaved mages. He was hesitant to use anything associated with slavery in regards to Lavellan, or anyone really, even to potentially save his life. He'd learned a lot here in the south, and he was rather ashamed of some of the ideas he once had regarding others. It was a cruel practice, all of it, one that he wanted no part of any longer. If only he could convince his country to feel the same way.

"Ah, yes, that. I hadn't thought of it, but it may work. Let's table it for later, hm?" 

Lavellan raised an eyebrow. "You've seen this one before?"

Dorian nodded, hoped he wouldn't need to elaborate, and then was silently prodded into elaborating anyway. "In Tevinter they use it on slaves with magical talents. Ones who ah- lost the status being a mage grants."

"I see," Lavellan said thoughtfully. Dorian was endlessly thankful for his tendency to not judge-  _ too  _ much, at least. He still fidgeted during Lavellan's quiet contemplations. "I would still like to try it."

Dorian relented, "I suppose Dagna will at least be excited."

Dagna was indeed excited.

"A magic blocking rune needs to be very precise, especially to keep this much raw magic contained, and possibly redirected. " She eagerly looked back at Lavellan's glowing hand and then back to the book. "If I make some adjustments to the shape of the rune, it might just hold."

"So you can-"

"Or explode."

Lavellan didn't look fazed but Dorian couldn't hide his alarm. "Please don't explode the Inquisitor's hand."

"Please do explode the Inquisitor's hand. The Inquisitor's hand is a nuisance," Lavellan countered sourly. "And will have him made Tranquil."

"I'm getting some mixed signals, but I'll do my best!"

She was already gone to her forge by the time Dorian weakly asked, "for which part?"

Supposing they might as well have lunch while they waited, the two went upstairs, poking about some of the other books in between salted pork and buttered rolls. There wasn't much in the way of new information to be had though, and it had Dorian deflating. Much of the few biographies of Somniari read the same, as did the process of the Harrowings (although certain  _ methods _ varied from Circle to Circle), and one account of Fade-walking was likely just due to an overconsumption of pitted deep-mushrooms, which had potent psychoactive effects. 

Lavellan was quiet throughout the meal and as he read, talking only if prompted. His smiles became colder, rarer, and not even the occasional visit from Sera or Bull seemed to cheer him. 

He could only hope Dagna had made something that worked.

"The rune is inlaid in this bracelet then?" Lavellan asked, lifting up the silverite band. 

It was a simple yet elegant thing, the solid looking rune stone nestled amongst the wirey band fitted with a chain and loop affair for a clasp. It would be easy to get on and off, unobtrusive and snug enough to fit under his usual heavy gauntlet.

"I used a viridium and drakestone composite for the inlay to act as a focus," Dagna explained. "The Anchor actually creates a miniature version of the Fade around itself. Like a sausage egg."

"What a quaint little analogy," Dorian said, inspecting the bracelet as well. "What, pray tell, is a sausage egg?"

"The Fereldan thing Cullen likes." Lavellan slid the bracelet over his hand and affixed the clasp, staring intently at the Anchor. "The boiled egg covered in sausage and breading." He looked up and frowned. "I think cheese is involved somewhere in all the layers."

"It's Fereldan. There's always cheese," Dorian said distractedly.

All three stood and stared down at the Anchor and the glowing runestone bracelet. The Anchor continued to crackle happily in Lavellan's palm. Nothing happened for a long minute, turned two minutes.

"I suppose we should have asked if it would… do something. Or not do something."

"Oh, it'll do something alright," Dagna commented excitedly. "Do you hear it?"

Dorian could indeed start to hear a sort of low hum building up and glanced down at the Anchor uneasily. The hum became a screech and then a sharp crack as the silverite band exploded and the runestone careened into the ceiling, showering them with dust. Harrit swore from his forge off to the side and Dagna giggled maniacally.

"Oops," she said without apology. "There's a lot more magic in the Anchor than I thought."

"Well," Lavellan said, staring up at the runestone, tense and visibly disappointed. "I suppose it's back to the drawing board then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sneak peek at the next chapter on my Tumblr
> 
> Anarchybutdragonage


	46. Rite of Tranquility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loool look at me updating on a Sunday. I don't even know anymore. Anyway enjoy your chapter 3 days earlier than usual.
> 
> It's like Christmas in July
> 
> Cw: Bad times with Lavellan (implied Rite of Tranquility, mentions of what happened to him in the Fade)

Dorian watched, frozen and silent like he was trapped outside his own body as the heavy doors of the great hall opened and Lavellan was dragged through, kicking and pleading.

All around them were faceless figures of the Chantry, Templars, and nobles with the same eerie masks, all watching impassively as Lavellan tried to break free. Despite his strength, the two armored shapes held firm.

"Please," he begged, tears running down his face, catching on his chin. "Please, don't make me Tranquil. I won't become possessed- I won't,  _ please. _ "

The audience wasn't swayed and Lavellan was forced to his knees. He shook, and the drip of his tears against the stone echoed through the hall. Dorian wanted to yell, to push through the crowd, to  _ stop this please _ \- but he could only watch as a Templar grasped Lavellan's rusty hair and pulled his head backwards as another approached with a glowing brand of lyrium.

The sizzle of flesh was a foul undertone to Lavellan's scream, and Dorian wished desperately to look away until it ended. 

Afterwards, Lavellan stared ahead, the sparkling glint gone from his eyes and the brand an angry red sun etched all the way to his skull. The very last of his tears fell and he said without inflection, "I don't understand."

Dorian woke with a gasp, sitting up from where he'd fallen asleep, propped against the headboard of Lavellan's absurdly comfortable bed. He wiped the sweat from his face with a trembling hand, the other finding the soft strands of Lavellan's hair. The elf lay tucked beside him, arm thrown around his waist and face squished into the pillow. He had drooled up a storm.

The smell of magebane hung cloying in the air, leftover from the more potent tincture to get him through the full of the night. He didn't even twitch. Dorian was jealous of the no doubt dreamless sleep Lavellan was enjoying while he was left with nightmares of what could be. They hadn't even made it through half the books, the glyphs and runes were a dead end as of last evening, and they were rapidly running out of options and time.

Cassandra and Vivienne suggested a Harrowing, even though Lavellan had walked physically in the Fade twice without possession, and the Chantry remained unswayed. The guards outside Lavellan's room had been replaced with Templars after the first night. Bull also reported some baffling insinuations about the Dalish being spread by a few Chantry members, confirmed by both Varric and Sera.

"The Dalish are more prone to demonic possession? Really?" Lavellan had growled, pacing the room furiously. "What absolute  _ nonsense _ ."

"My favorite one is that the Dalish worship demons, and you've been secretly in league with them this whole time," Varric replied.

"Oh? Goodness me, someone should have told me sooner." Lavellan sniffed. "Before I made a name in killing them."

"They are trying to paint you as a liability, Boss." Bull scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Likely to try and argue for the Rite. They can't push you out of being the Inquisitor, or replace you. This is the next best thing."

"How many are in on this little scheme?" Dorian asked.

"Two Mothers, five sisters, and a Knight-Commander from Orlais who missed the summons to Redoubt." 

"Those are just the ones who are vocal about it," Varric added.

Now, not only did Lavellan's newfound gift of Dreaming leave him open to possession as he slept, it had also incited a veritable coup. Lavellan, despite his understandable anger, was handling it remarkably well. He still somehow attended to his war room and advisors, filled reports in between reading dry autobiographies, and generally was the model of forced normalcy. 

But it was taking a toll.

It had been three nights now with only the artificial sleep of the magebane and no new breakthroughs. Lavellan looked exhausted even while knocked out cold, although if Dorian were honest, he wasn't faring much better. This was the first time he'd slept in days, his mind finally allowing him to take a break, only to be faced with nightmares.

Dorian scrubbed a hand down his face and eyed the tome across his lap and then the books he still had to go through. There just wasn't anything new to be learned from these accounts. Lavellan couldn't consciously control when or how he went into the Fade, and during the one time they tried experimenting, it turned out there was a very fine line between him entering the Fade through dreams and entering the Fade physically. 

They still couldn't get all the Fade slime out of the stone. 

Oddly enough, his own former mentor had developed the most promising solution. It was a glyph that not only confined magic, but localized it, essentially disabling the Anchor. So long as the Anchor was placed directly over the center of the large and incredibly intricate glyph. It was a nice thought, and Dorian was happy Alexius seemed to be thriving amongst the mages, but he couldn't help his disappointment.

Few options were left. They could look into strange artifacts that could potentially control the Anchor. But unless they found something equally ancient and powerful, and wearable or at least easy to carry, it would be unlikely to help long term.

There was also the option of just facing down the myriad of demons no-doubt waiting patiently across the Veil, mastering them and by extension the Fade, which Solas suggested quite smugly. Unfortunately, Lavellan had politely and rather curtly refused. Few others were as enthusiastic about that option as Solas. 

Cole came by shortly after, attracted to Lavellan's internal turmoil or sent by Solas it was hard to say, but it resulted in a quiet and sad elf for several hours. 

It was safe to assume that option was a no-go.

Which left the large Orlesian herbalism manual, and by extension, the magebane. Dorian knew very little of herbalism. He knew elfroot was great for healing minor issues, Embrium for headaches, and if you combined a tonic of both you would end up with diarrhea. He did know plenty regarding poisons, if only because they were so commonplace in Tevinter, but not enough to be of use. Lavellan at least had a better understanding, or so he assumed. He had never actually asked. 

Honestly though, he wasn't holding out much hope of anything useful.

He tried not to dwell on the fact that he'd finally found  _ someone _ only to immediately be in danger of losing them to something worse than death.

Pushing thoughts of a Tranquil Lavellan from his mind, he made to stand and get himself presentable. Guiltily, he slipped a pillow under Lavellan's limp arm and pulled the blankets higher before he actually got up. For all his jokes about mutual domesticity, he'd practically moved into the expansive Inquisitor's quarters and left his own room and alcove forgotten in the wake of this new emergency. If the elf minded he didn't say, although he looked pleased every time he woke or walked in and saw him there. It was a warming thought, that maybe Lavellan liked sharing his space with him.

He wondered if perhaps he could stay after this crisis was resolved and Lavellan made it through with his mind intact.

Unbidden thoughts of a Tranquil Lavellan surfaced again and he had to take a moment to push them back down. It wouldn't do to get caught up on maybes, not when he could still do something. Taking one last peek at Lavellan as he snoozed, he then got dressed and groomed, grabbed a tray of breakfast to pick at, and then got to work- tedious and fruitless as it was. 

It was almost mid morning by the time Lavellan stirred, tightening his grip around the pillow Dorian left behind and snuffling quietly. Another few minutes later he finally stretched, the morning light casting him in a warm glow. Grumpily, he sat up, scrubbing lethargically at his eyes and mouth. Dorian hid his smile behind his book, content to watch from his spot at the desk. He'd never shared idle mornings with anyone before and the casual domesticity was utterly charming. Of course, he wasn't as fond of Lavellan seeing him at less than his best, but he enjoyed seeing Lavellan before all of his Inquisitorial strappings. Funny how that worked.

Lavellan mumbled something and glanced about the room until he noticed Dorian, then nodded contently. "G'morn," he slurred. "Least it looks like a morning." 

"It is yes," Dorian replied. 

Lavellan's clipped accent popped out at times like these, when he wasn't quite as aware of himself. Dorian hadn't heard a Dalish accent before joining the Inquisition and being so near one of two such elves, but he enjoyed the lilting cadence of it- although it was a bit hard to follow depending on how groggy or drunk the speaker was. In this case, it was nearly indecipherable.

Lavellan shot him a tired smile before wiggling and shuffling into a stand, stretching languidly and giving Dorian a full view of his lean body. Dorian did not mind this at all. It was a difficult thing to tear his eyes away but he managed to give the elf some peace as he unsteadily went about his morning business. If the graceful and always poised Inquisitor accidentally stumbled over a particularly obtrusive bed post, he dutifully pretended not to see. 

"I swear this magebane is stronger than any moon whiskey I've ever drunk," Lavellan muttered. 

"I'll admit, I hadn't peeped at the recipe. I don't understand plants." Lavellan chuckled and finished buttoning his tunic much to Dorian's sadness. "So what exactly _ is  _ magebane?"

"Just a mix of lyrium, some concentrators, and an acid." Lavellan shrugged. "The Orlesians use ground foxite and heatherum for the concentrators, although I imagine rashvine would work the same, and the acid is just corrupted lifestone powder. It's quite corrosive, but is what makes it last so long. The alcohol is just so it doesn't get pissed out, but is a poor choice for elves. A distillation of deathroot would-" he froze and flushed pink. "Sorry this is probably very dull."

"Trust me, Lavellan, I find this to be anything but dull. Quite attractive actually." Dorian  _ may _ have been staring wide-eyed and with rapt attention as Lavellan talked- startled, intrigued, and aroused. "You never told me you knew so much about this sort of thing."

"You never asked," Lavellan smirked. He still managed to look bashful about it. "Did you think I ran around picking so many herbs just for fun?"

"I certainly didn't  _ not _ think that," Dorian countered. To be honest he just thought it was some sort of Dalish thing, or maybe just a Lavellan thing. 

The elf smiled and shrugged, nabbing a wrapped fruit pastry from the breakfast tray on the desk. "It is a little fun and relaxing, I'll admit. Plus I remembered plants and their uses quite easily. It was- it is a small comfort." He took a thoughtful bite, smearing a dollop of jam on his lip. "I think I was my clans herbalist- or maybe one of them."

"So you made all manner of potions then?"

"Healing tonics, grenades, poisons, alcohol…" Lavellan wiped the jam away and then sucked it off his thumb, oblivious to Dorian swallowing thickly. "I helped make those jars of bees Sera loves. Featherfew smoke to keep the bees asleep and contained, and banana oil to make them swarm when the glass breaks."

He didn't think he could be more impressed- or turned on. "Why banana oil?"

"Smells like a stinger when it's squeezed and works about the same. I was working on a sleep grenade too before all of this." Lavellan trailed off and frowned down at his pastry. He fell silent and Dorian ached for him to spring back to his enthusiastic chatter. 

"I'm terrified, Dorian."

"I'm scared for you too," Dorian replied quietly.

"I don't want to live as a Tranquil. I was… I've lived long enough like that for one lifetime," he said without looking up. "I don't want to live like that again."

Dorian couldn't help his curiosity. "What do you mean again?"

Lavellan grimaced and set aside the half-eaten pastry. Dorian was ready to apologize and steer them away from the topic altogether but the elf spoke first. "I wasn't found until days after the Conclave was destroyed." He turned to face the balcony windows, staring out onto the Frostbacks surrounding them. "I had spent two days trapped in the Fade. It felt longer- time works differently there, but I… it felt like an eternity."

Eventually he sat back on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumping before continuing. "The Nightmare demon we faced, it kept me there. It took everything from me." His voice dropped, "I didn't even know how to run, how to feel fear or pain, sometimes it would leave me unable to breathe. I was so empty, hollow. There was just… nothing."

"When the spirit of the Divine came she-" he frowned, "it's hard to describe, but it was like… slipping into cold water. I could breathe on my own and move and run- I followed her to the Rift. I'm not sure if it was my distance from the Nightmare demon, her touch, or Solas when he stabilized the Anchor, but I could feel and think again. You can probably imagine the rest."

To say Dorian was shocked was an understatement- and he found himself furious and heartbroken all over again. 

"You won't have to go back to the Fade," he reassured. "And you  _ won't _ become Tranquil." Lavellan nodded but didn't look up, not even when he crossed over the room to stand before him. "We'll find a solution, you and I."

"What if we don't?"

"There's always a solution to be had." Lavellan made a doubtful sort of noise. "You'll see."

Dorian cupped Lavellan's jaw, sliding his thumbs along the curves of his cheeks and stooped to press kisses at his temples and forehead, then down to his eyelids and lips. The elf wound his fingers into the fabric of his robes with a tight grip against the small of his back. It was at odds with the way he relaxed incrementally under his lips and hands. Dorian pushed him backwards gently, dragging his hands down over Lavellan's chest and then back up and crawling atop him. It seemed enough to ease the tension wracking his frame and offered a distracted respite from the heaviness of… well, everything.

"Now then, Amatus," Dorian began, and Lavellan made a quiet little hum. "Tell me more about this magebane."

Lavellan nuzzled his face into Dorian's neck. "There's not much more to it… the sedation is from the mix of concentrators, which leaves the lyrium to manipulate mana flow," he mumbled. "But I don't know much about lyrium in potions making." He pulled Dorian closer until they were laying almost flush and then twisted until they were side by side. "I thought lyrium increased mana and strengthened the connection to the Fade."

"It does- to an extent. The amount of lyrium in a lyrium potion is quite nominal, although too many can still give you a nasty headache."

"Magebane has an Imperial weight of twenty lyrium dust per batch of twelve belt flasks..." 

"That is a ridiculous amount," Dorian observed. "But too much lyrium is toxic to mages. It would make sense to use an excess as a mage-specific poison."

Lavellan hummed, falling quiet and contemplative as he trailed his fingers along the seams of Dorian's robes. "I think I have an idea… but I'm not sure on the details. I'll need to speak to Cullen."

"Very well, go follow your rather promising lead." Dorian wondered what he needed Cullen for but pressed a kiss to Lavellan's forehead and stood instead of prying. "I'll keep looking into alternatives, just in case."

"Thank you," Lavellan murmured softly, "for not giving up on me."

"Of course," Dorian replied with a bit more bounce than he felt. "It would be so difficult to replace you in any capacity." He desperately hoped Lavellan found a solution.

Now that he hadn't been asked to walk away, he doubted he even could anymore. He'd had a taste of what Lavellan offered, and greedy as he was, he ached for more- but if Lavellan became Tranquil… 

Lavellan laughed, the first soft smile of the day tugging at his lips. "Being with me certainly doesn't bring many dull moments, does it?"

"You've kept me so on my toes I've become a dancer. It's fascinating."

The pleased blush riding Lavellan's dimpled cheeks was enough to carry him through the hour or so the elf was gone. 

It was not enough to carry him through Lavellan's quiet announcement of leaving for Templar training with a man simply named 'Ser' for ten days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops my science background is peeping through
> 
> Isoamyl acetate, which is used as an alarm signal in bees, smells like bananas (or pears).
> 
> Anyway Lavellan is off to become a Templar weeee
> 
> Side note: I started work on a true backstory fic. Let me know in the comments if you'd be interested in reading about this Lavellan before the Conclave!


	47. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is so fillery hahaha and yet important.
> 
> Anyway Dorian misses Lavellan and goes shopping

Dorian stepped carefully and quietly through the hallways to the Inquisitor's rooms, sticking to the shadows as much as he could through the buzz of alcohol.

Lavellan had been gone for four days now to some undisclosed training fortress further north in the Frostbacks and Skyhold was eerily quiet in his absence. Even the Chantry dissenters had settled into an uneasy silence as the Inquisition waited with bated breath for the verdict. The Inquisitor training to be a Templar was unexpected for all, unwelcome to many, but was also an unfortunate final option. 

They could only hope the lyrium and training would help keep the Fade from encroaching further into Lavellan's mind. 

There was no way of knowing, not until Lavellan returned, whenever that was, leaving those in Skyhold to wait around. At least for most people not a part of daily Inquisition operations. Dorian was left attempting to catch up on his forgotten projects in between evenings at the Herald's Rest. Translations, transcriptions, compiling notes for the rebuilt Circles and for the Spymaster… the work didn't cease just because the Inquisitor was away. 

It was difficult to focus at times, worried as he was, but he made do.

Cullen wasn't as forthcoming with the details of the training- and it sounded as though Lavellan wasn't getting the standard affair anyway. It left a lot of questions, a lot of potential for things to go wrong. Lyrium could addle the mind, and elvish Templars were rather rare so much of how lyrium affected them was unknown. He could easily take in too much and render himself damaged beyond repair- insane and plagued by unquenchable thirst or made a brandless Tranquil. It could even overwhelm him completely and kill him. It was dangerous business, balancing the wellness of Lavellan with the function of the Anchor. 

The wait, the unknown- it was maddening.

So he'd been sneaking into Lavellan's quarters the past few nights, unbeknownst to all but the spies and single rogue spirit. He wasn't sure if he should, at first, but the more he thought of Lavellan… The elf certainly wouldn't mind at all. 

Despondently, he flopped onto Lavellan's massive, gaudy, impossibly comfy bed and waited for the world to stop spinning. 

He missed Lavellan- his soft breathy laughter and sharp wit, the way his smile crinkled the corners of his eyes and dimpled his cheeks, his measured thoughtfulness and fathomless kindness. He was an attentive and responsive listener, always eager to learn more and never withholding a single question or observation. He had listened on more than one occasion to Dorian as he rattled off some obscure story or fact or explanation without a single sign of boredom and was always more than willing to share his own thoughts and knowledge. For a man missing large swathes of his memories, he was able to recall things with startling clarity, cataloging each tidbit he was given like it were a precious gem and he a curious dragon. He missed their talks, he wanted to share his books and all the new things he learned, he wanted to hear him ramble and question and laugh.

He missed the flirty banter and shy looks and confident touches. Dorian was no stranger to being gazed at from afar, but not in the way Lavellan would look at him. Lavellan had seen all the more unpleasant sides of him- the bits he'd kept held tight and locked away in the dark. He'd seen the weepy scars left from Tevinter, the aftereffects of constant heartbreaks and denials and discouragements, the loss of home and country and family. He saw the cruelties of his fellows, the dangers of his magic and mind, and still Lavellan had held him close.

Most of all, he missed Lavellan's warmth. Skyhold felt impossibly empty and cold without him and yet he dreaded Lavellan's return. He'd grown so fond of him, would he still be the same person after all of this?

He didn't know which outcome was worse- Tranquility, Lyrium madness, or Lavellan's death.

Dorian sighed, grabbed the elf's pillow and pressed his face into the silk. It still smelled faintly of earthy petrichor, the hint of minty elfroot, and the fading ozone tang of magebane and the Anchor- like Lavellan. It was still a long time before he eventually fell asleep.

"The Lady Ambassador requests your presence on a trip to Val Royeaux, ser," the agent said, holding up an elegantly penned missive.

The man didn't dare step closer to Dorian, or further into his alcove, forcing him to stand to actually take the damn thing. "Oh? How delightful." He skimmed the note quickly and waved the agent off. "Then my presence shall be present."

The agent nodded and scampered off and Dorian wondered idly what business awaited them in Val Royeaux.

"Lord Pavus," Josephine greeted as he made his way to the gatehouse. At her side was Leliana and behind them was Vivienne, discussing something or other with several mounted soldiers- escorts he supposed. "It is wonderful of you to join us."

"How could I ever say no?" Dorian replied slightly absently. "What am I joining, exactly?"

"The peace talks in Halamshiral are in less than three months," Josephine explained, gesturing towards one of the carriages. "I've been able to secure invitations for the Inquisitor and six additional members of the Inquisition, yourself included upon Inquisitor Lavellan's request." Dorian let her settle in first before following her into the carriage, Leliana a ghost at his heels and Vivienne behind her. "However, that is only the first step. Appearances are far more important, especially for an event as momentous as this, and so proper attire must be requisitioned."

Dorian was well aware. In Orlais, outward appearances were your first weapon, much like in Tevinter, but their politics were far more fluid and far less dire. They were also exceedingly petty and blatant and dull in comparison. The similarities between Orlais and Tevinter were really only skin deep- as with most things in the southern empire.

However…

"It seems a little gauche, don't you think? Shopping for the Inquisitor at a time like this."

Josephine smiled but Leliana slipped a folded paper into his hands, "our Inquisitor is quite well. See for yourself."

Dorian unfolded the letter and held in his relieved sigh. As short and direct as the letter, more of just a note, was, it said enough. Lavellan had taken to the Lyrium with no trouble, was able to sleep without entering the Fade and was now learning the basics of Templar abilities. 'Ser' was a curt, no-nonsense man and Dorian wondered how he would feel about being gifted a fruit basket for his troubles.

"Such wonderful news," Dorian quipped. "I feel much better about spending all his coin on Orlesian fashion now."

Josephine hid her smile behind her hand. "Quite. It is presumptuous of me, but I believe you will play an integral part in preparing Inquisitor Lavellan for the peace talks at Halamshiral." She gestured to the other two ladies in the carriage. "Of the Inquisition, we four, minus the Lady Cassandra, are the only ones with experience among the Orlesian nobility."

"Cassandra avoids such things like the Blight, so it is really up to us four to prepare the Inquisitor for the Game."

Dorian grimaced. "I'm not sure you  _ can _ prepare him for such a thing."

"His polite demeanor can be a powerful weapon, Dorian, dear." Vivienne spoke up, but never looked away from her book. "He will be at a disadvantage before he even steps into the gardens. But such things can easily make people loosen their tongues. They will underestimate him and that will be their downfall."

"Perhaps," Dorian acquiesced. 

Selfishly, he wished that Lavellan would never need to ever do more than toe the waters of the Game. Like a riptide, it would easily drag him down, change him, spit him out as something different like it had everyone else. He knew Lavellan would never have the luxury of abstaining from the cruel politics of the powers of Thedas. They had already forced his hands on multiple occasions now, ensnared him in their plots, and would continue to do so until-

Such bitter thoughts would be a poor companion for the three day trip to the capital, so instead he focused on his present companions. Josephine was amiable and he even managed to pull a giggle or two from Leliana with his chatter and jokes. Vivienne was also easily coerced into discussions on magical theory. Time passed like a lazy breeze and he pushed fretful thoughts of Lavellan from his mind.

The Lady Ambassador would need to be a miracle worker to truly prepare Lavellan for the upcoming ball, and he needn't dwell.

It had been some time since Dorian had last been in Val Royeaux. It was his first real stop after fleeing the Imperium, where he had sold most of his visible finery and regrettably his birthright, and he had spent his two days in the Orlesian capital looking over his shoulder for his father's retainers. Needless to say he hadn't had much of a chance to admire the city. 

Overall he wasn't impressed. 

"Current fashion trends are bold, with a focus on pattern brocades. The Inquisition can capitalize on color, however patterns will be tricky." 

Josephine inspected a swath of silk while Dorian managed to pry his eyes away from the wall of the tailors shop. The proprietor had seemingly painted over a patch of mold with an elegant lake scene. The black of the mold peeked through the white of the swan. It was fascinatingly poetic and summarized Orlais quite nicely. Hide the ugly with beauty and maybe that would fix it.

"It will be best to stick to solid colors, lest we accidentally use a piece of heraldry," Leliana added in agreement. "The style will be formal and traditionally militaristic, and uniform across all attending on the Inquisition's behalf. Bold colors will suit such looks far better than patterns."

"Red would be a politically neutral color," Josephine said, lifting a searing, blood-red skein of heavy satin pointedly. 

Dorian didn't bother holding back his disapproval, "absolutely  _ not _ . Perhaps if it were a burgundy, but  _ that _ eye-melting shade will do nothing less than burn the fragile retinas of her Majesty."

"Burgundy is not in fashion, darling."

Leliana hummed, "it is rather… red."

"It would keep attention, make the Inquisition stand out. Inquisitor Lavellan needs to be the center of focus, imposing and untouchable." Josephine hesitantly added, "there are many who view him as… lesser, in the political sphere."

"I'm afraid the only statement he'd make in that shade is that red is not suited for his complexion." Dorian looked at the bolts of silk and satin and samite. "Blues and gold, brown and green, grey and perhaps even black. Those would look best." Understanding color theory was an integral part of politics.

"What color is the Empress Celene's dress?"

"I believe it is blue, with gold accents. Gaspard has green and yellow heraldry, if you wondered," Vivienne replied, absently inspecting some gold-woven lace.

"Out of caution, let us avoid these colors," Leliana said. "Grey and black will be uncommon to see at such an event, but will suffice."

Dorian supposed his job here was well done. Lavellan could thank him later.

"Such unflattering colors," Josephine lamented. "But it is Inquisitor Lavellan who needs to look his best."

"Cheer up, Josie," Leliana grinned. "You will likely be too busy to worry about fashion."

Lavellan would at least look fetching- of course, he  _ always _ looked rather fetching in Dorian's unbiased opinion. It would be a single small mercy, having Lavellan dressed up and looking fancy, and hopefully that would marginally brighten the no doubt dismal peace-talks.

Leaving the ladies to buy the excessive amount of cloth and trim, Dorian wandered off. Val Royeaux was certainly more vibrant than any Tevinter city, all youthful architecture and less sewage, and the smells of the city were pleasantly nostalgic. Skyhold smelled of snowmelt, musky earth and dust, and the faint tingling of ozone in amongst all the nature- the opposite of proper civilization. He still avoided every 'food' stall he passed, grimacing at what the Orlesians considered fine cuisine.

Passing by a stand of various baubles, he wondered about getting Lavellan a gift while he was here. He'd likely appreciate the sentiment more than whatever Dorian picked out, which made it both easy and difficult. Easy because he could grab whatever and Lavellan would be pleased, and difficult because he wanted to impress the elf. 

Candied fruits? Lavellan had quite the sweet tooth. Or an interesting book? He had so many already. Perhaps some rare herbs? He eyed a clump of felandaris but didn't know what was usable let alone helpful. Alcohol just seemed like a silly idea.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" Leliana's voice startled a yelp from him. She giggled, "I did not mean to startle you," she said unapologetically.

"I honestly shouldn't have been surprised," Dorian huffed. "I also wouldn't say it's a particular something either."

"Let me guess-" 

Dorian groaned, "please, don't."

Leliana smiled and laughed, "I'd wager, you are looking for something for someone."

"That someone could easily be me, so you know. I can treat myself every now and then."

Leliana shot him a look of patient disbelief. "At first, I did not approve of your liaison with the Inquisitor, but he seems happier now than he has anytime before." She looked at him thoughtfully from under her hood. "I thought of you as a potential threat, and then as a distraction. He is our Inquisitor, after all."

"He's a man like any other- deserving of happiness same as everyone else," Dorian grumbled.

"I think so too, though I did not for some time. Perhaps you are good for him."

Earning the approval from the Spymaster of the Inquisition was undoubtedly a good thing, especially since it would likely keep him alive, however it was still… surreal. He didn't know how he felt about his relationship with Lavellan being known to someone who was in the business of information, but there was nothing to be done about it now. Everyone would know eventually, and he was gradually coming around to the idea. Old habits were hard to shake, however.

"I try to be," he muttered, too quiet for Leliana to hear over the bustle of the market.

"In any case, he is a sentimental man and will appreciate anything given to him." Leliana continued, "perhaps all the more if it could be shared." With that she turned and headed back towards the fashion district. 

She wasn't wrong, and it gave him an idea of what he could possibly gift Lavellan.

Before he could head towards the right side of the market for such a thing, he caught sight of a certain merchant. It had been a long time but he'd recognize the man anywhere. He had been desperate, alone, and unwanted when he had sold off his birthright. He was none of those things any longer. If he truly was going to change his homeland for the better, he would need to reclaim his family heirloom.

He turned towards the merchant and supposed a slight detour wouldn't hurt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, 
> 
> Someone puts a dash of cayenne pepper into a cinnamon roll.
> 
> Also fuck the Chantry.


	48. Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Tuesday updates I suppose (for now at least) and Lavellan has finally solved his dreamwalking problem.
> 
> Yaaay!

Lavellan took a deep breath as he passed through the gate of Skyhold. He had missed the castle, the smell of frost and spring and magic, and most of all: being near  _ people _ . He'd been gone for three weeks to a dilapidated fortress on the edge of Lake Calenhad with only the cold company of Ser, a few Templars, and a small escort from Leliana- but really he was only around Ser. The Templars were there simply for if the magebane stopped working, and Lavellan couldn't help his distrust at their presence, so he avoided them. He at least rarely saw them again after he took his first agonizing dose of lyrium- and consequently passed out and truly  _ slept _ for the first time in nearly a week. 

His dreams were more solid, less Fade-tinted and intangible, and now had the humming undercurrent of the lyrium song. He was also no longer accosted by demons everytime he fell asleep, and that was arguably the most important part. Being more capable fighting against them was just a bonus at this point. The training he was given regarding mages however… that part made him rather sick. 

But he'd always felt soft towards mages.

Speaking of mages- there was one he was quite eager to see. Stopping by the stables, he greeted Blackwall with a wave and a quick chat. The man had apparently missed the missive about him being away and for why and seemed surprised by the news. Not for the first time since meeting him, Lavellan wondered if that was how he somehow dodged all the Warden summons the false Calling.

He was greeted by Cassandra at the base of the stairs. "Inquisitor. It is good to have you back." 

"It's certainly good to  _ be  _ back." 

"I can imagine so. Ser is a capable teacher, although his… reports, if they could be called such, were quite bare boned." She shot him her warmest lip-tilt as they walked up the stairs to the upper courtyard. "It will be good to hear of your experience first hand."

"Of course. Have things been quiet?" He certainly hoped so. He'd had about a month to fester and didn't think he could stand any more nonsense from the Chantry. 

"Mercifully yes, although I imagine they will be displeased with your success."

"When are they not displeased with me?" He shook his head and sighed. "Give me an hour and then I'll decide what to do with them."

Cassandra nodded. "I will summon them to the war room."

"Thank you." Lavellan watched from the top of the stairs as the Seeker turned and headed off. 

He was then nearly bowled over by a gangly elf in too much plaideweave. 

Before he could even formulate a response Sera had already darted off to the tavern, the kitchen staff following and yelling after her. She seemed happy to see him before bolting off, judging from all the whooping and cackling. The news seemed to spread quickly as a cheer rose up from the tavern. Chuckling under his breath, Lavellan continued up the steps, relishing the feeling of being back.

Until he saw red.

The swish of Chantry robes crossing the courtyard left a bitter taste in his mouth, souring his mood. He hadn't forgotten or forgiven the lies many of the Chantry had spread before he left. It's what pressured him to turn to the lyrium training after all, before they managed to assemble a mob and force a brand upon him- or worse, his fellow Dalish. They would have a much harder time undermining him now that he was trained as a Templar, but he didn't want to offer them a chance to do more.

If only he had been given the time to look for more solutions, then he could've gone without becoming something of a Templar. Now, he was tied inextricably to lyrium for the rest of his life. Cullen had been quite forthcoming about what he was getting into, what his future might hold, and it was terrifying. He had time before the effects would make themselves known, however, and it wouldn't do to dwell on such uncertainty right now.

Perhaps later when there was a lull and he could panic in peace.

Somehow he made it up the stairs and through the great double doors without being accosted further. The number of nobles had seemed to have doubled while he was away and his presence was met with silence for all of a few seconds before the murmuring picked up with a fervor. Gatsi had also hung up more of his mosaic tiles in a rather… artful arrangement. Varric was nowhere to be seen.

"Gatsi, are you making modern art?" 

The dwarf startled and spun around with a wide grin. "Inquisitor! I'm glad to see you've returned in one piece! As you can see, I've been making headway on your little mosaic collection."

"It appears as though a Dragon has risen up and is now commanding a tower to attack a group of headless people."

"I think you might be missing some tiles."

"The Dragon is upside down."

Gatsi squinted up at the tiles, shrugged, and turned back around. "It's a work in progress."

"I hope so, or else Thedas has a stranger history than I thought," he mused. "You wouldn't happen to have seen Varric, would you?"

"He left a few hours ago, after a lady dwarf came by. Not sure where he slipped off to- he's hard to keep track of sometimes."

That was certainly the truth. Disappointed, curious, but also on a time crunch, Lavellan made a mental note to follow-up on Varric before bidding Gatsi farewell and slipping into the Rotunda. Solas had finished a section for what was undoubtedly Adamant, and Lavellan traced the sloping scenery and marveled at the impossible colors for a silent moment.

"So you've returned," Solas' voice pulled his attention away, as it always seemed to. "I take it the lyrium treatment was successful?"

"I think so," Lavellan replied. "I haven't been in the Fade since taking it."

"Is that really cause for celebration?" Solas shook his head and the disapproval tugged at something latent in Lavellan's gut. It had him suddenly nervous. "Such loss of potential… it is a detriment. Like cutting off your hand to prevent a splinter."

Lavellan frowned and glanced away. "It's not a detriment if it keeps me from being taken by a demon."

"Lyrium wasn't the only answer. Now you are tied to it and someday it will take your mind." Solas' voice hardened. "What do you even know of lyrium?"

"No more than anyone… but it may not matter, in the long run." Lavellan absently rubbed at his left wrist and quietly added, "I'm not likely to live long."

Solas seemed to relent. "The Anchor still troubles you?"

"It hasn't been any worse than usual lately. Although, I-" Lavellan faltered. "I haven't closed any rifts since Adamant and now there's ah- a pressure under my skin."

"May I?" Solas offered and Lavellan hesitated before allowing the mage to inspect the glowing mark peeking through a burned window in the leather of his glove. His touch was clinical and gentle but Lavellan still winced at the sharp pain of magic touching fried nerve endings. "The lyrium seems to have helped stabilize the Anchor for now, but the effects will fade over time." Solas, satisfied with his inspection, moved to his desk. "Closing rifts seems to provide an outlet for the stored magic in the Anchor. It also reminds me, while you were away I researched the artifacts you've activated. They pointed towards a sizable rift in the Hinterlands worth investigating."

"I can look into it." Lavellan promised. "Thank you, hahren."

After exchanging curt farewells, Lavellan took a quiet moment for himself in the privacy of the enclosed stairwell. Solas always seemed to rattle him in some undefined way, leaving him anxious and confused. He handled himself similarly to a Keeper, though he would be quite offended if Lavellan ever said so.

But that was yet another thing to ponder at another time.

For now, he had a mage to greet.

Dorian was either dedicated to his facade or was thoroughly engrossed in the book he was reading. Either way he didn't look up when Lavellan leaned against the edge of his bookshelf, not for a long moment. It had been three weeks and he had missed Dorian fiercely, so he took the moment just to take in the gorgeous sight of him.

Dorian eventually looked up, eyes widening briefly with surprise before crinkling at the corners as he grinned. "Amatus," he greeted warmly, setting his book aside. "You've finally decided to return to us."

Lavellan grinned back, "as if I could stay away."

"Here I was worried the Templars had stolen you for good." He sniffed dramatically. "You never wrote, after all."

"They didn't give me a chance." Lavellan pushed away from the bookshelf as Dorian beckoned him further into the alcove. "I think they were scared I'd spread around all their Templar secrets."

Dorian eyed him warily. "You didn't actually join their delightful Order, did you?"

"Creators  _ no _ ," Lavellan laughed. 

"No vows of chastity either, I hope." Dorian waggled his eyebrows and stood, sliding his hands over the burnished plating of Lavellan's armor. 

"Could you even imagine? I'd probably combust," Lavellan mused idly, reaching out to touch leather belts and straps as Dorian moved closer. "I missed you."

"As did I. You had me quite worried." 

Dorian pressed his lips to Lavellan's neck and began trailing them upwards. Lavellan tried not to melt. "Did you know lyrium has a distinct smell to it?"

"Are you saying I stink?"

"On the contrary, it smells rather attractive. Like the air after a lightning strike. Like magic." Lavellan's reply was swallowed up by the press of Dorian’s lips against his and fizzled out as he eagerly returned every touch given to him.

"I brought you back something," Lavellan eventually managed to say, breathless and distracted as he was. It was a common occurrence when Dorian was involved. "From their library." It was an incredibly ancient book but in good condition, the contents a mystery. They had no need for it, so they let him take it to Skyhold.  


"Oh?" Dorian nibbled at his ear and Lavellan barely held in his moan- turning it into a strangled sounding hum instead. "Is it a tome on how to harass mages? Perhaps one on how to stand menacingly for hours at a time."

"It's in Tevene so I don't really know. I had looked for one on how best to play 'the naughty mage and the hapless recruit', but couldn't find one." Dorian smothered his laughter against Lavellan's neck and his breath tickled. Lavellan couldn't hold back his stupid smile.

"I suppose we'll just have to figure out how to play it ourselves," Dorian suggested with a pointed wink. "I've a few ideas if you've got some time."

Lavellan was a second away from agreeing and tugging him to the bedroom when he remembered- "I can't right now." 

Dorian looked crestfallen but unsurprised. "You've only just gotten back and are already being whisked away."

Lavellan nodded sadly. "I need to deal with the Chantry sooner rather than later."

That seemed to perk him up. "A proper scolding is long overdue. I'll wait for you in your quarters, but do take your time with all the verbal lashings."

"I'll be sure to fill you in on all the details, preferably over some of that brandy I had."

"I'm afraid Sera found it and drank it all already." Dorian's tone implied that he had helped. "But I'll find some wine for the occasion."

Lavellan chuckled, pressed one last kiss to Dorian's cheek before wandering off with a wave and a promise, aware of soft grey eyes following him out. He wished he could spend more time like this- chatting, joking, touching. Dorian was handsome and witty and incredibly smart. Instead of being obstinate, Dorian approached each issue presented to him with a considering humility, changing his mind when challenged, and willing to view things from both sides but not compromise on his morals. He could talk about anything and everything, smart but rarely condescending. He felt like the first breath when you returned to somewhere fond.

Unfortunately there would be no time to whittle away with pleasant company; not when there was the constant underlying threat of Corypheus and the destruction of the world, the upheaval that came with it, and the arguably less cataclysmic issues of the Chantry. 

If only he could bottle up the warmth Dorian gave him and carry it with him.

Sighing, Lavellan made his way down to the war room, greeting Josephine with a nod as he went by. Cassandra and Leliana were already waiting for him inside, as were several robed women of the Chantry and a bored Templar. Josephine came in shortly after him, excusing herself to the small desk to the side. 

"Inquisitor. I see you've returned with success," one of the Mothers greeted with a plastered smile. He could already tell this was going to be a chore.

"Just because you've joined the Templar Order doesn't mean you are less of a danger, Inquisitor," the Templar warned.

"I haven't joined the Order, but I am no more in danger of possession than you." That last part wasn't actually true, but Lavellan didn't really care about semantics at the moment. "That being said, that issue has been resolved."

"We are glad to hear of it-"

"There is, however, one more issue to deal with." Lavellan didn't want to look at their idiotic faces, so he turned towards the wide arched windows instead. 

"When I first became your Herald, I attempted to bridge the gaps between our peoples. I compromised to comfort. I was told my accent made me difficult to understand, so I learned to hide it. I was told I needed to look more presentable, so I wore human armor and boots to match. I tried to be gracious, and instead of returning that grace, that compromise- instead of even making an  _ attempt, _ you work to spread dangerous lies about my people and I?"

"Inquisitor," one of the Mothers began, "we meant no harm. It was done out of concern not of spite."

"Your fear-mongering and baseless slander would have my people murdered, hunted down like animals," Lavellan growled. "Have we not suffered enough for your ignorance and from your endless hate?"

"Perhaps we can make amends. The Maker-"

"No," Lavellan interrupted, shaking his head. "You've done quite enough damage. As soon as you've each issued full retractions and denouncements of your lies, you will be removed from Skyhold and your ties to the Inquisition severed."

"That is quite harsh, Inquisitor," Cassandra muttered. 

"Not as harsh as inciting the slaughter of the Dalish for falsehoods." Lavellan countered sharply. 

The Mothers all objected at once but it was the Templar's booming voice that eclipsed them. "You'd throw the Chantry and Order aside so easily? After all it's done for your Inquisition? How dare you-"

"I'm not tossing out either of those things. Just those who spend their time spreading lies about the innocent instead of actually helping." Lavellan waved a hand tiredly. "Leliana will arrange everything, and you will have a full accompaniment back to Orlais. Josephine will go over the details of your severance shortly."

Lavellan ignored the shouting and spitting Chantry women and Templar as they were not so kindly escorted out by Leliana. No doubt they'd either be having a fun and enlightening chat about this or he could expect to be poisoned during their regular tea later. He'd find out in the next few hours. Absently he wondered if he could skip the rest of the day and go take a nap instead.

"I don't expect much, but I still manage to be disappointed," he muttered.

Cassandra sighed. "It is… understandable of you to send them away. The Dalish would indeed be in danger if tales of demon possession and worship spread."

"Don't forget they tried to have me made Tranquil."

"I will attempt to smooth things over with the rest of the Chantry, as well as the few remaining Templars." Josephine wasn't quite looking at him.

"Thank you. If you need my assistance, let me know." He did hate making her job more difficult than it already was.

Creators he hated politics.

"Of course." She paused before hesitantly and quietly beginning again. "Inquisitor, I- I would like to apologize. I hadn't realized… we had asked so much of you."

"I understood why," Lavellan shot her a smile, hoping she understood that her apology was accepted. "Although, it seemed all for naught I'm afraid."

"It is a shame how they acted," Leliana said as she returned. "A poor reflection on what they represent."

Lavellan shrugged. "There will always be bad apples in a bunch. I'm just surprised it took so long." Turning to his advisors (minus Cullen) he straightened and announced, "from now on, no more gifts of boots to the Inquisitor."

Cassandra huffed while Leliana giggled quietly.

"I'll be wearing Dalish armor when I'm in the field from now on. And boots will be optional in Skyhold."

"So you will not be wearing boots at all in Skyhold anymore." Cassandra shot him a look.

"Not if I can help it, no."

Josephine hid her quiet laughter behind her hand. "I will see about asking Dagna to prepare a new set of armor."

Lavellan nodded and headed for the door, Josephine and Leliana locked in discussions behind him and Cassandra contemplative and quiet by his side. The armor and boots were just first steps towards shucking off more of the Herald. He'd never truly be free of the title and expectations and weight, but he still felt a bit lighter. It would be nice to be more of himself after spending so long being someone else. 

Out into the throne room, Lavellan made an immediate turn to the left and around his guards- still Templars- and into his quarters. Somehow, he managed to hide his frown until he was through the door. He had been invited into the Order, or what was left of it, and he'd outright refused. There was something about the whole institution that made him burn, and now he was tethered to it in a way. That made him burn more. 

He couldn't make heads or tails of the feeling months ago, and couldn't still, so instead he pushed it away to mull later.

For now he had his room, a warm fire, a soft bed, and a handsome man laying across it with a bottle of "is that the Rivain wine? The kind with the-"

"The pickled nug toe, yes."

Lavellan laughed, wanted to cry but didn't, and shook his head. "How did you come to know me so well."

"Maker only knows," Dorian chuckled. "Welcome back home, Amatus."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's basically a play on the sour toe cocktail.
> 
> And then they gossiped and drank until Lavellan fell asleep and Dorian read his new Tevene book... that was definitely just ancient erotica.


	49. What Lies Dormant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Thursday and I have a chapter...  
> What...
> 
> How
> 
> Anyway here's part one of a two parter
> 
> Cw: violence

They had been on the road for two days, had just left from the farm camp, and Dorian was still in a state of disbelief. He thought the Inquisitor was quite done with the Hinterlands. It was stable, supplied with healers and carpenters, and watched over by Inquisition soldiers. Overall, it was by far the most prosperous place in Thedas.

Unfortunately a dragon had decided to make its home close to Redcliffe, and Lavellan was apparently the only one capable of dealing with it.

He didn't think he- nevermind the  _ Inquisitor _ would be back to the Hinterlands, let alone so close to winter, but here they were.

Dorian shivered in his robes.

"So, when are you getting that new armor?" Bull asked conversationally as they wandered up to the unfortunately named grove by Redcliffe farms.

"Sometime within the next week or so. Dagna is working on the trickier bits, but Keeper Istimaethoriel was willing to have it crafted for me." Lavellan smiled. "I was surprised. Dalish armor is not so easily replaced."

"I'll admit, it doesn't look like much, but the make of it is impressive. I've seen a Dalish warrior take an axe to the gut and it didn't bend. Plus it really works those elvish legs," he added with a booming laugh. "I can't wait to see it- and maybe test it out."

"Dalish armor is really strong enough to withstand an axe?" Dorian asked curiously. He already knew Lavellan's legs would look stunning.

"Not always but it is very sturdy. It's made of ironbark and viridium, with magic woven into the threads by the Keeper or First to help protect the wearer and fend off the cold or water." Lavellan explained. "Mine was destroyed after the Conclave and never replaced."

"Bending but never breaking, this one will have more love than the first," Cole piped up from behind them. 

He'd been mercifully quiet and everyone else had forgotten about him.

"My first set of armor?" Lavellan asked nervously.

"It will be," he answered ominously.

Lavellan's face scrunched up with adorable bafflement as he pondered this.

"Oh look, it's the cave full of demons Solas wanted us to investigate." Dorian had never been more thankful to see a terrifying, howling cave before in his life. "Shall we?"

"You know me," Lavellan quipped, eyeing the oppressive darkness with a weary resignation. "I'd never turn down a nice moist cavern."

"This ones a screamer," Bull noted. The cave was, in fact, emitting a low but audible sound of torture and despair. It raised the hairs on the back of Dorian’s neck and had him shivering again.

"It's scared of the dark," Cole added helpfully. "It likes the light."

"Okay," Lavellan nodded, reaching for his greatsword. "Why not?"

There were few torches, all of which produced veilfire when lit, and the cave was actually just some sort of underground building. Its chiseled walls were damp from the nearby waterfall and tiny springs peeking through, cobwebbed, and decorated with moldy tapestries. Large statues, a mix of Fereldan and something else, dotted the corners between piles of strange pots encrusted with skulls. The awful scraping, howling noise only intensified the further they went and it had them all on edge. It didn't help that Bull's eyes shone like a cat in the dark, startling them (mostly Dorian and Lavellan) frequently. All in all it was not quite the worst cave he'd been in (that award went to the Western Approach, shared equally amongst the many horrible cave systems it held), but it was still quite terrible. 

It only got worse the deeper they went in, revealing a massive space, probably a great hall of sorts, with a Rift right in the ceiling steadily dripping the vibrant green of the Fade that was coalescing into more demons. A great number of Shades were already scuttling about the room, twisting and screeching, but a few Terror demons came skulking from the dark corners to greet them as well. Dorian sent a ring of fire out from their party, lighting up the room and sending the demons screeching back in pain, and lighting the ruined tapestries and rugs ablaze with fire. There was exactly one torch on the ground and it lit the space like a candle. 

There were a  _ lot _ of demons.

"Fenehdis," Lavellan swore under his breath, "let's get to it then."

Shades were, at least, very flammable, and lighting them on fire helpfully lit up the room, revealing all the Terror demons waiting in the shadows for a chance to strike. It was enough to give Lavellan the opportunity to begin piecing the tear closed, turning the veritable demon fountain into something more manageable. Like a little demon spring or a very determined demon leak. 

Bull slammed his greataxe into the back of a Shade getting a tad too close to Lavellan and Dorian mused again on the sheer quantity of demons in this room.

The Rift arced and groaned and struggled, flashing with light and spurting out great globs of Fade that splattered and burned the ground. Arms and legs rose from the piles as demons fought their way through to this world, and Lavellan was visibly struggling to contain it. He wondered if this was similar to the Breach before Lavellan had stabilized it and later closed it shut. He also wondered if  _ this _ would kill them and save Corypheus the trouble.

Bull had a long series of gashes across his shoulder and hip and teeth marks on his forearm. Lavellan was wobbling where he stood, virulent green seeping around plate mail and peeking through leather. The plating around his shoulder had been sliced off and the Anchor and Rift had both burned streaks into his armor, through his leathers, and into his skin in places. Cole was flitting in and out of sight too much to tell his state, but there were out of place droplets of blood smattering the floor and leaving little trails and footprints. Dorian felt as though he'd never have mana again, and the last Terror demon to ambush him had left gauges in his shoulders and possibly bruised his ribs. 

Blue light coursed across Lavellan's skin, following the veins of blood as the room shifted, righted itself, and the piles of liquid Fade evaporated into foul smoke and screams. The tear screeched, and the hum of energy built until cracking, and shattering. The Rift sealed and faded out, leaving almost a dozen various demons behind. 

Lavellan swayed, moving too slow to defend against a Terror dropping down from the ceiling and Dorian acted on instinct. The barrier spread over Lavellan like frost, cracking like ice as the Terrors claws scraped against it uselessly. Dorian was now completely drained of mana, breathing hard and feeling quite haggard, but he'd made it in time. Lavellan swung his greatsword and sliced the Terror nearly in half, his thankful smile replaced with a look of shock and horror. Before Dorian could ponder this, he was flung backward by the thrashing tail of a Terror. His head cracked against the stone wall and-

Lavellan stared numbly as Dorian slumped, on the cusp of heartbreak, before the mage straightened and his fear turned to confusion. Dorian's soft grey eyes were suddenly glowing purple, and light crackled across his arms as the ozone tint of raw magic swelled in the air. The mage raised his hand and a tempest grew in the middle of the hall. 

Lavellan stared dumbly, worried and unsure. Quietly, he asked "Dorian?"

Dorian didn't respond, instead clenching his fist, the room shaking with the boom of thunder and flashing with light. Lightning struck the Shades and split the stones beneath them as cold winds swirled around his feet and ice grew in paths to entrap the remaining Terrors where they stood, turning them brittle with ice. He snapped his fingers and the few remaining hardier Shades were engulfed in fire, screeching as they were burned away from the world. Calamity had opened up in the world for the span of a few terrible minutes as Dorian unleashed an elemental storm. 

The ozone created from the sheer amount of mana being spent and magic being tossed around mixed with the acrid aroma of demonic ichor and burning, and a foul gas rose from the dissolving bodies of the demons. They had all been sent back to the Fade, and the fires tapered out into nothing as the air settled. Lavellan stood awestruck and nervous until Dorian slumped again, a purplish shape rising from him like smoke before fading and leaving him unceremoniously dropping to the ground.

"What," the Iron Bull breathed, "was  _ that _ ."

Lavellan had bolted to Dorian's side, terrified and worried but relieved the mage was alive, and gently gathered him into his arms. The elf shook his head, making his way to the stairs and trying not to trip. "I have no idea- I need proper light, to see if he's hurt."

"It wanted to help," Cole said, following them up. "It likes seeing things through. He made a promise in the dark and a pledge in the light, no matter what, I will protect you."

Lavellan felt himself flush. "He did say that so long ago. Was it a demon? Will he be okay?"

"He's not possessed is he, kid?" 

"No?" Cole said, sounding incredibly offended. 

Out in the light, Lavellan could see the trickle of blood on the back of Dorian’s head from a superficial scrape. It had him anxious regardless. 

"The crossroads aren't too far from here, and they have a healer. We'll reach it by evening."

"Sounds good, Boss. Want me to carry him?"

Lavellan shook his head, "no, no I'd rather…" thankful Bull understood. Slipping off the worst of his heavy plate armor and handing it to Cole, he maneuvered Dorian up and against his back. His face was tucked into the junction of Lavellan's shoulder and neck, and his even breaths were a ticklish comfort. Quietly they trudged back towards the farm camp.

Halfway down the sloping hill Dorian began to stir against Lavellan's back. 

"Kaffas," he grumbled into Lavellan's shoulder, "was my head bashed into a rock?"

"Yes," Lavellan and Bull replied simultaneously.

"Oh," Dorian paused, before jolting so hard he nearly toppled himself and Lavellan over. "Why are- why am I on your back?"

Lavellan shrugged, unintentionally shrugging Dorian with him. "You were unconscious and I need to get you to a healer."

"I coulda carried him in my arms like a princess, Boss."

"I prefer it this way." Lavellan glanced back at him, his face close enough to count each freckle. "Unless you would prefer something else? Whatever is more comfortable for you."

Lavellan's thoughtful care sent a little flip in Dorian's gut, paling in comparison to the somersaults his heart was doing because he was here, pressed against Lavellan's slender but impossibly strong back, legs bracketing the dipping grooves of his hips, warm hands steadying him under his thighs, burning hot even through his robes-

He imagined this in a way, being held by Lavellan's impossible strength, although he may have been placed a different way in all of these dreams.  _ Maker _ , he could practically  _ feel _ Lavellan's muscles under all the leather. Lavellan had lifted him up, had him on his back, the full weight of him, and if he was under strain he didn't even show it. Again his brain helpfully reminded him that Lavellan could toss Dorian around like a ragdoll, pin him down with only one hand, he could-

_ Spiders. _ Spiders, and old ladies. Plaideweave and that horrible rug in front of Josephine's desk he had been meaning to accidentally incinerate. Spiders wearing plaideweave.  _ Anything _ to keep him from getting an erection while pressed against Lavellan's back.

He was with two people it would be  _ impossible _ to hide it from.

"I could probably walk you know," Dorian offered (borderline pleaded). "As much as I do love being pampered like this."

"Nonsense, you have a head wound. I can't have you stumbling around falling off any cliffs." Lavellan twisted around to smile that impossibly gentle smile at him. "Let me do this for you." Dorian would blame the sudden flush from nose to ear on the head wound. "Besides, I'm a bit concerned that if you pass out again the spooky thing will happen."

Bull nodded solemnly and made a little grunt of agreement.

Dorian frowned. "Spooky thing? What does that even mean?"

"Where you got glowy eyes and all purple and you just-" Bull interjected with an excited roar, "blew SHIT UP! I didn't think you had that kinda thing in you! I thought you mages couldn't do so much at once."

"Oh! That," Dorian chuckled smugly. He would have postured, or at least given his mustache a stroke or two if he wasn't busy holding onto Lavellan like a limpet. "You liked it? It's a spell I created back in my Circle days. Mostly to get me from bar to bed after passing out, but it is rather impressive I know." 

"It was, but how does it work?" Lavellan asked curiously. "You were like another person."

"Oh that's because I was for a brief time. Upon losing consciousness, a certain kind of spirit can enter my body and finish whatever it was I started, with theoretically unlimited access to mana, for a little less than a minute. It's ingenious, isn't it?" 

"I don't have the strongest understanding of magic," Lavellan began haltingly, "but that certainly does sound like… something. I think."

"You telling us you made a spell to let a spirit take over your body, just to walk you home after you get drunk?" Iron Bull looked over, one eyebrow raised.

"Yes."

"It's their favorite. They wait at your side until you call them through, because you ask and let them see even if it's not for long," Cole added. 

"So," Iron Bull drawled. "Your man is haunted."

"Sounds like it," Lavellan agreed a little too readily.

"I am not haunted. I've always been closer to the Veil, it's why I can summon spirits so easily." Dorian sniffed. "However, I'm not a cursed relic or abandoned house."

"They gather around you too," Cole added, looking pointedly at Lavellan. "You are very bright- like fire in the dark, a beacon for them to find. They hope you will be like her."

Lavellan made a confused noise as Bull slowly said, "so… you are both haunted."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian, concussed: Cole is not helping this head injury
> 
> Lavellan, confused: I am so confused
> 
> The Iron Bull, resigned: I hate magic
> 
> Next up, they fight the dragon. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting! It means a lot!


	50. Dragonslayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is mostly banter with some dragon slaying.
> 
> Also accidental nug acquisition
> 
> Cw: violence and creature death.

Dorian had managed to convince Lavellan that he was fit enough to walk, although the elf was still fussing and attempting to coddle him. They were finally just starting to approach the bridge, nearly halfway to the Crossroads and he was already quite ready for this foray to be over. Perhaps the dragon would leave on its own eventually. However he did miss the warmth of Lavellan's back in the cold biting winds of the outskirt valleys, although his pride couldn't take much more abuse. How Bull managed to walk around without a shirt in this weather was beyond him.

"You humans have such delicate constitutions," he chuckled, watching the mage shiver. "Bothered by a little chill."

"Really, there's no need to lie," Dorian huffed, pulling his cloak tighter. "Your bosom could cut glass." Lavellan snorted, poorly concealing his laughter.

"You checking out my bosom?"

"Your bosom is hard to miss."

"In all seriousness, you really shouldn't be walking around with a head injury, especially while chilled," Lavellan said seriously. 

"I'm quite alright. Besides, I could easily just heal myself," Dorian replied. He hadn't tried, or ever had to try, healing something of this magnitude, let alone on himself, but if it soothed Lavellan's worries he'd give it a shot.

Not to mention he'd already drunk three healing tonics and he was not planning on drinking any more any time soon, no matter how much Lavellan pressed.

Instead of looking impressed or reassured, Lavellan gave him a skeptical little frown. "That doesn't seem like a good idea."

"Nonsense." Dorian waved a hand. "Let me just-" as soon as the magic touched his head he found himself bending over and vomiting on the side of the road. 

"For a second, I was worried he could actually do it. Mages are dangerous enough without healing themselves," Bull observed, audibly relieved. 

Lavellan hummed while rubbing circles onto Dorian's back. "Head wounds are serious business. Let's get you to the Crossroads, okay?"

They had just crossed the bridge and Dorian was pressed against Lavellan's back, again. It was at least a nice reprieve from the cold and Lavellan seemed happier while he was off his feet. It didn't make him feel any better about the situation, in fact he felt a bit sick still. But that might have been thanks to the fourth healing tonic.

"I really am quite alright."

Lavellan made an understanding little hum, but didn't release his gentle but firm hold on Dorian's thighs.

"Do you need another elfroot potion?" Cole asked helpfully. 

"No, but thank you, Cole," Dorian sighed.

"The Inquisitor makes them with care and healing in mind, twisting the leaves and grinding the stems. It's why they taste like how a blanket feels."

Bull cooed. "You're quite the softie, Boss."

"Don't go telling people. It'll ruin my image."

"They won't make any terrifying statues of you at this rate. Have you seen the one they made of Hawke?" Dorian added. "It shoots fire."

"Supposedly the eyes follow you no matter where you go." Bull added. "Classic Kirkwall."

"I hope any statues they make of me are the fancy Antivan kind," Lavellan mused.

"The ones with the fountains in the base?"

Lavellan nodded, "that are generally naked, yes."

Dorian laughed loudly, but quietly murmured "and this is why I adore you so" into Lavellan's ear. 

"Is that the only reason?" Lavellan quipped.

"Hardly," Dorian chuckled.

The Crossroads were in a better shape than the last time the Inquisitor and company had been through. The small hamlet had been repaired, new houses were built, and the infirmary was well stocked with healers and elfroot tonics. 

Dorian would never get the taste out of his mouth. 

The spirit healer in charge was at least kindly and efficient, and before long he was declared to be back in working order- and just in time for supper. Cole disappeared somewhere midway through, likely to check around the area searching for people to… do whatever it was he did, while Bull wandered over to the makeshift tavern. It left just him and Lavellan at the campfire and then inside one of the larger tents.

"I'm glad you are okay," the elf eventually said, while they lay side by side in a bedroll likely derived from a bear killed by the Inquisitor himself.

"Was there ever any doubt?"

"A little. I saw you get slammed into a wall," Lavellan murmured against Dorian's jaw.  "You had me worried."

"I'm made of far sturdier stuff, I assure you," Dorian replied, letting Lavellan trail his lips idly from jaw to cheek to the corner of his mouth. 

"I know," Lavellan said between gentle kisses, sliding his hands up Dorian's chest to cup his jaw. "I couldn't help but fear the worst." 

Dorian hummed under the attention, but Lavellan continued, shy and unbearably heartfelt, "I'm very fond of you... and I worried I had lost you."

Blindsided by Lavellan's candid admissions and easy affections, Dorian managed to mumble, "It'll take more than a little rock to lose me."

"Don't try too hard," Lavellan smiled against  his skin before chuckling, "you taste like elfroot."

"I wonder whose fault is that?"

"I wonder indeed," Lavellan replied, unapologetic and thoroughly pleased with himself.

Dorian woke up sometime mid morning alone in the tent with all of the blankets piled atop him. His mouth still tasted slightly of an herbal tonic. Tiredly, he dressed and made himself presentable before slipping from the tent and heading towards the nearest campfire in search of breakfast. Lavellan was already up and looking through various reports while Bull sipped at a bowl of something too thick and vicious to be sippable. Cole was at the edge of the site, seemingly chatting with a set of interested doves.

"Nice of you to join us," Bull said without looking. 

"Surely you could not begrudge a man his beauty rest," Dorian replied with a yawn. "Especially before a task as daunting as  _ slaying a dragon _ ."

Bull sighed wistfully, "exciting isn't it?"

"That's one way to describe it," Lavellan added absently. He scrawled his signature on the top page before looking Dorian's way with a smile. "There's better breakfast than porridge if you'd like."

"I would certainly like that. Do lead the way."

Salted pork, hard crusty bread, and a pan-fried egg made for a fitting possibly last meal for the road, though he hadn't quite forgiven Lavellan for barring a bit of wine. The closer they got to Lady Shayna's Valley, the more he wished for a good, stiff drink. There were burning swathes carved into the landscape and several trails of splintered trees the closer they got to the haggard Dusklight camp.

"Thank the Maker you're here, Inquisitor," the tired camp officer said at the sight of them. "She's getting restless. Picked up a druffalo from the farms just this morning. We think she might go back."

"That's certainly no good," Lavellan said. "Have my supplies come in?"

"Big crate over by the cart. Arrived yesterday evening."

"You've been busy, Boss," Bull observed.

"Yes, well," Lavellan huffed, slipping several round flasks from the crate. Several were a sickly, sludgy greenish brown and others were filled with a simple grey powder. "If these were handled with care, then this should go quite painlessly." He paused and added, "and more importantly we won't be immediately incinerated."

Dorian frowned as several of the flasks filled with powders were handed to him. "We apparently need to work on your motivational speeches."

The dragon screeched, shaking the ground and sending sharp echoes across the basalt pillars and archways. Dorian grimaced but didn't dare drop the flasks in his hands. 

As soon as it was over, Lavellan hastily explained, "the green flasks are lures, the powder creates a low fog just thick enough to obscure her sight and sense of smell. Don't use them all at once."

Cole and Dorian nodded while Bull roared happily. Lavellan ignored him. "Everyone ready?"

Cole tilted his head, "what about the children?"

Lavellan looked confused for all of a few moments before realizing, "oh, you mean- the dragon. It has dragonlings. Uhm," he turned back to the crate and grabbed another half dozen of the green mixtures. "Keep them occupied for us." Straightening he asked again, "ready?"

"Why didn't we bring the person who has killed a dragon before?"

"She got annoyed when I asked," Lavellan shrugged. "She did give some advice though."

"Dragons make her sad," Cole interjected.

"Don't stand in the fire," Lavellan continued nonplussed. "Watch for the teeth, and the tail."

Dorian shifted uneasily. "That's all?" 

Lavellan nodded and distantly, Dorian wondered if they were all about to die.

The grove was surprisingly calm as they stepped further in. It was a truly picturesque place, cascading waterfalls and towering conifers, heady with the smell of encroaching snow and the fishy tang of Lake Calenhad. It was the kind of landscape one would paint and hang above a mantle.

Maybe with fewer dragonlings.

_ Far _ fewer dragonlings.

Said dragonlings looked up at their approach and immediately came bounding over, obviously seeing them as more food, their maws dripping viscera from the disemboweled druffalo behind them. They circled and clicked, chirping like giant fire-breathing birds. Lavellan was quick to intercept, tossing a green flask far to the side. The effect was immediate- as soon as the flask broke the dragonlings stopped and sniffed the air, before rushing off to investigate.

"Well," Lavellan muttered, a little awed. "That worked better than I expected."

"I'll say-" Dorian ducked as the dragon screeched overhead, swooping over and around and clipping against a turret of basalt pillars.

Rubble crashed down as the dragon circled back and landed heavily in front of the broken flask.

"Perhaps a little too well," Dorian said haltingly. 

"Guess we'll find out if these are just as effective," Lavellan surmised, pulling a few of the powdery flasks out.

They did indeed work like a charm and enveloped the grove in a simple white fog that was easy enough to see through for everyone but the dragon. Debatable as a fireball landed a bit too close to Dorian for comfort. Cole was at least keeping the endless swarm of dragonlings occupied while the two warriors sliced and hacked away at the tendons of the dragons legs while Dorian played distraction, conjuring ice into its eyes and spirits to haunt the edges of its peripherals. 

It was slow going- the dragonlings gradually lost interest in the flasks and Cole had to start putting them to sleep. Whether it was the permanent kind or the regular kind, he wasn't quite sure, but they were starting to pile up. The dragon was making quite the ear-splitting fuss as its legs were gored, Dorian kept getting knocked around when it moved its wings, and dragon blood smelled very strongly and nauseatingly of sulfur.

The next time they fought one of these Maker-damned things would be entirely too soon.

By the end of it, they were all breathing heavily, were slightly singed in places, and drenched in dragon blood. The dragon lay in a heap, having bled out from the jagged slices rent through its tough hide from the whirlwind that was Lavellan and Bull. The few remaining dragonlings had scattered and the grove fell silent. 

Lavellan wiped the blood from his face and took stock of the mangled corpse and wrecked grove. "That wasn't so bad."

After taking a cursory rinse in the nearby pool to get the worst of the stink off, they made their way back up to the Dusklight camp, only to come upon a scene of chaos. There were nugs,  _ everywhere _ . They certainly hadn't been here before and at Lavellan's question, the officer simply shook her head in terror and confusion. 

"They just… started appearing, soon as the dragon died. One or two then a few dozen," she said while trying to lift one from out of a barrel of food stores.

"They like how it is quiet now," Cole said sagely.

Lavellan promised to send help but seemed unsure of what exactly that would entail. "I'm woefully unprepared for a nug incursion," he mumbled worriedly. 

"I don't think anyone is prepared for such a thing. They'll have to burn those tents," Dorian observed.

Suddenly, Lavellan stopped, his ears twitching. "Dorian, did you… did you squeak?"

"Oh no, you've found me out," he drawled.

"I hear it too," Bull added. "Coming from your pack."

Dorian frowned but strained his ears. He could hear a slight… scrabbling noise not unlike the rats living amongst the rafters of Skyhold. Tentatively he loosened the strings of his traveling pack, set aside before the foray with the dragon, and peeked in- and nearly dropped it in surprise. A palm-sized nug was curled up against his book, having decimated the apples and hardtack he had stashed away, and was staring up at him with beady, imploring eyes.

"That is the tiniest little fella I've ever seen," Bull said. "Also it looks a lot like a scrotum."

"It's so small. It must be a baby nug," Lavellan added, then furrowed his brow in confusion. "I've never seen a baby nug before."

"To be honest," Dorian muttered while attempting to extricate his book before it became unsalvagable. "I didn't think there  _ were _ baby nugs."

Lavellan shot him a look, "why would there not be baby nugs?"

"You just admitted to never having seen one!"

There was a quiet (barring all the squeaky little nug noises) moment before Lavellan relented and shrugged, "fair enough."

"So, we tossing it out or what?" Bull interjected. "It's beginning to stink."

"Absolutely," Dorian replied as Lavellan vehemently denied, "of course not!"

Dorian huffed as Lavellan pointed down at the hairless, pink, thing and implored, "it's just a baby- or a really small adult nug- but we can't just abandon it on the side of the road."

"We aren't by the road," Cole added helpfully. "You wanted to take a shortcut to Redcliffe. This way has elfroot and embrium along the paths."

Lavellan ignored the spirit boy and leveled those soulful blue eyes Dorian's way with a look that effortlessly shattered his willpower into tiny pieces. 

Glancing away, Dorian relented- but not without much indignation. "Fine, keep the creature. However, I get to use the bath first as recompense."

"Deal," Lavellan grinned, entirely too pleased with his nug acquisition.

It was late in the evening when they finally made it to Redcliffe village and the celebratory party was already in full swing. Tiny candle lights had been strung up from poles and tankards of the finest watered down Fereldan Ale were being poured and clashed together in toast. A great cheer rose up at Lavellan's approach and crowds moved to greet them, blissfully ignorant of the dragon stink still lingering like a cloud over the group. While Lavellan was all but carried off to be thanked by the Arl himself, Dorian went to claim his well-earned bath, leaving the nug in Cole's probably capable hands.

By the time he emerged, Lavellan was wobbling at the makeshift bar speaking to an equally drunk Bull, both sipping at something that smelled flammable even at a distance. Dorian shook his head fondly over his own tankard, preferring to stick to foul ale as opposed to whatever  _ that _ was. 

The celebration didn't wind down until late after midnight and half of the partygoers lay slumped across tables or in chairs, and one unfortunate peasant half inside an empty barrel. Bull remained artfully draped across the makeshift bar, and would likely remain unmoved until he woke up again. Dorian was quite drunk, but Lavellan made him look sober in comparison, and together they stumbled and giggled up the stairs to what the Gull and Lantern considered the master suite.

"What  _ did _ you drink," Dorian slurred between chuckles.

"Creators, I don't even know. Something involving dragons." Lavellan flopped onto the bed, ignoring Dorian's noise of disapproval. "Tasted like death and piss. But also of cranberries."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno why this took me ages to write. 
> 
> Anyway thanks for reading and next up: Emprise du OSHA violations in the quarry


	51. Emprise du Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yaaay an update like a week later...
> 
> Anyway remind me to edit this later. I didn't give it as close a look as I probably should.
> 
> Cw: graphic violence, injury and description

Lavellan was almost glad that Dagna hadn't finished his new armor and that he had left Dorian at home because Emprise du Lion was _frigid_. 

He hadn't even gotten all the dragon blood off him before having to head towards Sahrnia to look into the quarry, after Leliana received some frankly concerning reports and the scouts never came back. Things had rapidly devolved from worrying to incredibly dire here in Orlais in just the span of a few weeks but the full extent of the troubles was unknown, so he had to investigate it himself it seemed. All in all, it was looking worse than he expected.

Red lyrium veins cropping up were bad enough on their own, but a  _ mine _ ?

That was certainly no good.

This secret operation by the Red Templars had gone under the Inquisition's nose long enough to develop into something quite troubling. Who knew how much red lyrium had been shipped out in the meantime? It was frustrating. More so when he saw the jagged crystal spikes of it poking out of spots  _ just outside _ the damn town. 

Lavellan and his companions stared at the mess of red lyrium for a long moment before he growled in frustration. "Are you fucking  _ kidding _ me."

Madame Poulin was the first name on a short list of people with whom he'd be having words with well out of Josephine's earshot. Not just because she had sold her quarry to Red Templars, neglected the workers she sent off (likely to their deaths), and not  _ once _ until a week ago decided to tell anyone about the goings on, but because there was no way this could have  _ just  _ happened. As they trudged through dense snow and around singing pillars of crystal, Lavellan's fury only continued to simmer and his headache intensify.

The landscape of Emprise du Lion was absolutely  _ ruined _ without a single care. It would take years, decades, to remove all the Blighted crystal. Lavellan stared at a worn statue of Fen'harel, its chipped base surrounded by red lyrium, for a long few moments as his irritation bubbled. He hated this place, with its terrible river, labyrinthine paths and cave passages, and the constant, inescapable,  _ maddening  _ lyrium song. It ground against the metal in his veins, resonating in his head like fingers across the rim of a glass.

"That quarry should be right up ahead, Boss," Bull nudged quietly.

Lavellan managed to pull his eyes away from the tip of the now glowing Tower of Bone, turning instead towards the trampled path leading further into the wooded areas. 

"We should deal with whatever is going on around that tower. It's a lot of red lyrium," Lavellan countered.

"Or we could not," Sera suggested. "Let's do what needs doing and get out of here."

"If we figure out  _ how _ this red lyrium is spreading, perhaps we can put an end to it."

"I doubt there will ever truly be a recovery for this land," Solas interjected. "But it may be worth investigating, regardless."

Lavellan led the way, trudging towards the remnants of the ancient highway, ignoring Sera's whining. "It'll be a quick detour."

It was not a quick detour. 

Just as red lyrium had cropped out of every rock in this frigid hellscape, so too did every damned Red Templar in a futile attempt to stem their advance. Lavellan half-suspected that a good chunk of Corypheus' army was here, growing red lyrium like cabbages and terrorizing the local Orlesians. They were incredibly determined to keep the Inquisition from the quarry, both in effort and in helpful instructions they just left out for anyone to read. Red lyrium appeared to do little to help with brain power. 

The Inquisition could at least set up a foothold to stem the tide of red, and Lavellan marked each spot he cleared on his map. He also witnessed first hand the creation- or at least one possible method- of the red lyrium veins first hand when a behemoth slammed its arm into the rocky soil and shards grew around it, growing in time to a pulsing, discordant heartbeat. It did not bode well for any chances of stemming the growth of the Blighted crystal anytime soon. Not until all the Red Templars had been dealt with.

From what he'd heard, most of the Order was corrupted and Lavellan had no clear count of just how many Templars there were in the south, or if this spread north.

"What a mess," he murmured, inspecting the innermost spike of red lyrium within a massive swirl of the stuff. "What an  _ absolute _ disaster."

"It looks bad, that's for certain."

"Stupid red shite," Sera griped.

"Maybe there will be research notes in the quarry, or at least something on how it is growing," Lavellan sighed. "Then we may have a chance at uprooting it. Light a signal, will you?"

Bull dutifully set off a flare, returned by an answering flash in the outskirts of Sahrnia. Hopefully the scouts could establish a base, keeping the Red Templars back. Now to find people who could research this stuff. Dwarves maybe? Perhaps he could contact Orzammar and ask for lyrium experts. Varric supposedly had a lead he could follow up on as well.

Rubbing his temples, Lavellan wished he could catch a break just  _ once _ .

"Surely there's somewhere in Thedas that isn't on the brink of calamity," he grumbled.

"You thinking of a vacation?" Bull asked

"A what?" 

Sera cackled until sobering, "oh wait, you're serious then? I just thought you were stuffy but you're  _ serious _ , serious."

Lavellan frowned. "I've never heard of the word before. It sounds very Orlesian."

"The People don't believe in such things, I imagine." Solas mused.

"You've never gone somewhere for funsies?" Sera pressed. "No long trips just to escape?"

"If the Dalish are on the move, it's certainly for an escape, but not for fun," Lavellan replied absently, preoccupied with sidestepping a pile of red bricks and shards.

"This explains everything," Sera muttered, a little too awed.

"Maybe mention this to your 'Vint," Bull suggested, undoubtedly with a knowing smirk. Lavellan didn't bother turning to check, feeling his ears pinken regardless. 

Sera laughed madly, "he'd take you somewhere alright."

Lavellan was saved from any more teasing when several arrows helpfully flew at them. They were nearing the quarry entrance, and despite all the shouting and desperate cries to keep them out, they easily forced their way through the small battalion of Red Templars at the gate. For as much as the letters they found stressed the quarrys importance, it wasn't as well gaurded as expected. 

He'd seen cheese wheels with better security.

Curious and a little suspicious, Lavellan pondered this while watching Sera fumble with her lock picks as the imprisoned workers quietly murmured encouragements. 

"Stupid lock froze shut," Sera cursed as the mechanisms unlatched but the lock didn't budge. 

Lavellan absently grabbed the lock and yanked, sending ice flying and brittle metal twisting away. 

"When are you gonna teach me to do that! Better than picks, just tearing through."

"Oh trust me, I wouldn't have been able to do that had it still been locked." Lavellan glanced to Bull. "Odd number of guards here for something so important."

"Either it's a distraction or whatever it is, it's further inside." Bull pointed towards the beginnings of a downwards slope into the quarry, and beside it, a wooden scaffold. "Taking the catwalks will give us a good vantage."

"I agree," Lavellan murmured. "There's something wrong here."

"It's the red shite isn't it," Sera quipped. "I knew it."

"The Veil has weakened here. There is more then red lyrium at work to twist this landscape," Solas added. "It is nothing but a tool, but to what purpose… that remains unclear."

"Coryphenus," Sera spat.

"Probably," Lavellan agreed. "Let's look."

The scaffolding ran the circumference of what appeared to be the first of many quarrys in a strange S-shaped configuration at the base of the Suledin Keep. Each one went a little deeper than the last, but each had a small group of Red Templars and towering scaffolds along the sides. Most notably was the giant iron spike dangling above the quarry pits, inset with monsterous spikes of foul, ancient feeling red lyrium. The aura emanating from them had him grinding his teeth, set his head to throbbing, and had the lyrium in his blood singing. It was a bit distracting all things considered.

Which is why when, halfway across a set of scaffolds and while focusing on dodging arrows from below, a Red Templar Lieutenant dropped in front of him, Lavellan was just a second too slow. The Lieutenant smashed it's armored and jagged arm into his side, bending the metal but mercifully not breaking through and Lavellan was suddenly no longer on the scaffolding. 

In books and stories, they say there is a feeling of weightlessness as one falls. Time supposedly slows down. 

Anyone who says that is wrong.

Lavellan careened off the side of the scaffold, aware of his companions shouting his name, and immediately felt the impact of the scaffolding under him as he smashed and bounced his way through two levels of catwalk before reaching the bottom. He never thought he'd be thankful for snow, but the impressive snowdrift he landed in was deep enough to cushion him from the rocks below.

Dizzily, Lavellan stared up at the clear sky and gasped for air.

Air that would not stay in his lungs.

He could hear fighting, shouting, the movement of metal on metal, but he was too deep in the snow to really look around and the  _ pain _ . His right leg was a strange pins and needles numbness, his wrist throbbing angrily, and the wood had sliced him up nicely. He'd be one big bruise after this. Most worrying were his ribs, fragile and crooked from consecutive breaks and magical resets. 

One may have gone into a lung, or would be soon.

Creators, if he could just  _ breathe _ .

He never got the chance as the sky darkened as shapes loomed over him. At first he wondered if it was Bull and maybe Solas until he felt the thrum of red lyrium and he felt his stomach drop. Red Templars.

He couldn't move.

One of the Red Templars grabbed his wrist and he couldn't even manage a scream as he was dragged from the snowdrift and towards what might be the middle of the quarry. His suspicions were unfortunately confirmed when the giant spike of red lyrium came into view. His left wrist was grabbed and pressed against the cold stone and Lavellan caught sight of an axe.

He couldn't scream.

Before the axe could fall an arrow embedded with a wet thunk into the eye of the largest Red Templar. Lavellan was released if only so they could retaliate and he took the chance to try and breath, shaking from fear, adrenaline, and pain. It felt as though he was under water. 

"Easy there, Kadan," Bull rumbled from above and all of a sudden Lavellan was scooped up.

"Gentle," he managed to gasp, the pressure burning his lungs like fire.

Bull chuckled but adjusted his grip, "doesn't this bring back memories. Let's get you back to Sahrnia."

"He gonna be okay? He is right?" Sera's panicked voice came from nearby. 

"He needs a spirit healer. He will survive, but we must move quickly," Solas replied with far more calm. "Although perhaps it is time to let his bones heal without magic."

He hadn't had much of a choice the last time with his ribs, given it was either that or puncturing a lung, but he was in little position to defend anyone's actions. Lavellan simply let himself be carried back, unable to breathe, let alone speak, as Sera worried, Solas reassured, and Bull muttered, "Dorian is going to be  _ pissed _ ."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian is def going to be pissed.
> 
> Also this is why workplace safety regulations exist.


	52. Reprieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ngl, I haven't been reading through these last few chapters as well as I should. 
> 
> But hey this was basically all about getting concepts and whatifs out asap so...
> 
> Anyway filler I guess

Dorian had spent the first day back in Skyhold after slaying the Hinterlands dragon in the tavern as the Inquisition celebrated. He had then spent the morning after nursing an impressive headache in Lavellan's tub while he and the elf shared swigs of one of his secret hangover potions. He then spent the rest of the afternoon moping as Lavellan was stolen away on a pressing trip to Emprise du Lion.

He wouldn't say he desired to go to the frigid Orlesian countryside teeming with red lyrium, but he wasn't enthusiastic about being left behind either. He had specifically asked for Lavellan to not do this sort of thing. Yet here he was, lingering like a ghost while Lavellan went off to traipse across Emprise du Lion without him.

The waiting was probably the worst part.

It was expected to be a two week trip, and Dorian spent the first few days hard at work. Leliana had started popping by to ask about Tevinter, various people, and words in Tevene, Vivienne kept taking his favorite books, and Fiona kept rearranging his desk. At one point the Rotunda had to be evacuated and all the windows flung open wide as one of Helisima's experiments went awry. One afternoon was spent playing chess with Cullen in the gardens and another with Josephine as he helped decipher some letters from Tevinter nobles. He spent a few evenings with Varric, playing Wicked Grace at the perpetually sticky tables in the Herald's Rest while replacing a few choice words in Maryden's songs, drinking with a reluctant Blackwall before or after. Occasionally, Cole would drop by and ask him something strange or gift him something stranger. All in all, he had plenty of distractions. 

It didn't make things any easier.

Complicating things further was the fact that he'd never experienced this sort of… _malaise_ before. It made sense, he'd never had a relationship as serious, less transient, as what he had with Lavellan. Not to mention his previous paramours didn't spend much time careening off into battle against the forces of evil. What did one do when they were left behind while their lover went off to save the world? What if Lavellan was hurt?

What if Lavellan never came back? 

That was the most maddening thought, and it mixed poorly with his worry, his indignation, his desire for… something. He didn't have names for half of what he felt or an outlet for the rest and that was a frustration in itself. He wanted to be where Lavellan was, despite knowing he'd absolutely hate it. If Lavellan was in danger, as terrible a thought as that was, he'd at least like to be there with him. The not-knowing, the waiting, the… absence, it all felt like a cloud, smothering him.

But how did one go about asking their lover to not leave them behind?

Perhaps it was along the lines of 'Amatus, not knowing if you've tumbled off a ledge to your doom is driving me mad. Please take me with you as you plow headfirst into danger.'

Or, more like 'let's go frolicking off to our respective demises together, Amatus. Demons, dragons, darkspawn- just let me stay with you."

Either one only made him sound… attached. Like a maiden in Varric's terrible romance novel that Cassandra had goaded him into reading. He'd never begged to go anywhere with anyone other than his parents, and the last time he had done that was when he was twelve and desperate to see a Necropolis. It was a strange concept, a strange feeling, and a strange situation. 

Hopefully he'd find the words before Lavellan came back.

He had no such chance as the horns signaling Lavellan's arrival sounded a mere six days after he had left. The worry in his gut turned into stone and left him reeling. Either the Inquisitor had been triumphant in a quick battle, the reports from Sahrnia were overblown, or the very worst had happened. He never even made it out of the Rotunda to find out. 

Someone had locked the door from the outside.

Sera's voice filtered through, "oh bugger it, the doors gone and stuck itself."

"Sera did you lock me inside?" Dorian asked.

"What!" Her shock was feigned and followed up with the telltale blowing out of her cheeks. "Doors yeah? They get stuck."

Dorian sighed, "fine. I'll go use the _other_ door while this one decides if it wishes to remain mysteriously stuck."

He heard her faintly mutter "there's _another door_?" before turning and heading back up the stairs to the second floor. 

Solas entered with ease the moment his feet reached the top stair and he spent a moment deciding if retaliation against Sera would be worth it. Likely not. With a sigh, he made his way to the far door, turning before reaching Vivienne's balcony and then promptly crashing into an out of breath Sera.

"Fancy running into you here," she said, attempting to nonchalantly lean against the stairwell, blocking the path completely. 

"Yes. Literally," Dorian grumbled. Lavellan returned early and Sera was acting strangely. Solas didn't seem concerned so that probably meant the Inquisitor hadn't died, but something was still wrong. "If you'll excuse me I'd like to check on-"

"We don't chat much these days do we?"

"We spent three hours convincing Blackwall that the flaking crumbs on your hands were warts caused from touching nugs just last week."

"And he bought it," she laughed and waved a hand, "too long ago! Let's get knickered at the Rest anyway."

"I think you mean 'knackered' although that still doesn't quite fit right. Regardless, I can _after_ I greet the Inquisitor."

"Your man's fine yeah? Nothing broken so let's just get drinks and go," Sera pressed.

Dorian narrowed his eyes. "What happened in Emprise du Lion?"

Sera seemed ready to lie again, took one look at Dorian's face, and decided against attempting another diversion. "Look, it wasn't his idea. Just," she deflated slightly, "be gentle. He's got glass for bones."

Dorian had no idea what that meant but muttered, "I'll try," as Sera went back the way she came.

Concern ratcheting higher, Dorian made his way to the Inquisitor's quarters at a leisurely pace and taking the winding, hidden paths in the lower levels and up the scaffolding. Lavellan was not dead, that was at least certain, but Dorian feared what shape he was in. The hallways were empty, the scaffolding quiet, and there weren't any voices filtering from further in, which boded well. Possibly. He wasn't stopped on the way, or had to worry about being turned away or seen, and he was quite thankful. Lavellan's door was unlocked, and Dorian didn't bother knocking before stepping inside.

The first thing he noticed was the smell of elfroot, always faint and lingering on Lavellan's skin but pungent in the room. Potion bottles and rolls of soft gauzy cloth covered the surface of a small table at his bedside, the fire had been well-tended, and his balcony doors closed. Lavellan poked his head out from under a pile of blankets as he entered, seemingly half-awake. 

His eyes widened and with a wince he sat up. "Dorian, sorry. I meant to come greet you but ah…"

Dorian hummed and took in the sight of the elf. There was jagged slice along the underside of his jaw, a few more spots and cuts along his shoulders and arms, peeking around and from under the bandages wrapping around his chest. His skin was a motley of bruises, coloring his flesh like paint on a canvas. His right wrist was in yet another splint, but the rest of him was hidden under the pile of blankets and furs. 

"This is quite the shape you've returned in," he said. He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice, but a few unhappy notes slipped through regardless. Lavellan grimaced.

"A Red Templar took me by surprise," he grumbled contritely. 

"You certainly look it," Dorian replied, stepping close to take Lavellan's chin and inspect the weepy slice under his jaw. 

This was what he feared- Lavellan limping home injured. He'd seen him after the destruction of Haven, of Adamant, and now this. He doubted it would ever get easier. Worse still, he was powerless to stop it.

"Just how badly are you hurt?" Dorian fed a few tendrils of magic into his fingers to stitch the torn skin together again, leaving just a nominal scar behind.

"Broken leg, broken ribs, broken wrist, damaged pride, some cuts, some bruises," Lavellan cataloged while picking at the blankets and avoiding eye contact.

Dorian tutted, "if only I could leave _you_ behind in the safe lap of luxury."

Lavellan frowned, "I don't regret leaving you behind." He paused, "you were hurt in the Hinterlands because of me… I didn't want to see you hurt again."

"Ah, so now _I_ get to be the one seeing _you_ go and get hurt all the time? It must be nice getting to decide things for others."

"That's not-" Lavellan defended only to falter as he thought. "What would you have me do then? Bring you with me so we can both be in danger all the time?"

Dorian flung his hands in the air, "yes! Yes, you should."

"I can't guarantee anyone's safety. If anything were to happen you-"

"Which is why we go together. At least then we can watch each others backs, so to say." Dorian crossed his arms and petulantly added, "what was this you said about us being equals, after all? And wanting to have me by your side?"

Lavellan was quiet for a long moment but relented with a sigh. "You're sure? I can't say I like it, but if it's what you want…"

"It is, very much so," Dorian huffed. "Not just so I can dissuade you from sampling abandoned foods."

"I fear any promise to bring you with me will be broken rather quickly," Lavellan murmured unhappily. "This job isn't exactly predictable."

"Oh, there's no doubt such things to pop up, and quite frequently. You are a magnet for disaster, after all." Gently, Dorian cupped Lavellan's cheeks. "Let me to support you when and where I can." 

He'd play the maiden-in-wait if he must, but only if there was little option but to be sidelined. Who knew, it could be him sent out on special missions while the Inquisitor was left behind. Let alone when he went back to Tevinter someday… Better now that they work together when they could, and he could keep Lavellan as safe and intact as possible.

"It's… a fine point. I just," Lavellan looked away. "Don't put yourself in danger because of me."

"You are already endangering yourself for all of Thedas," Dorian pointed out. "But we'll be out there in danger together, keeping each other safe."

The last threads of Lavellan's reluctance seemed to slip, and he nodded in agreement, ceding his little battle and Dorian was quite pleased. It would do little to assuage his worries, but it was a start. He kissed away at Lavellan's frown, pressing him back down into the bedding until the elf gasped.

"Ribs. Ribs are still broken."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dawwwww 
> 
> Anyway we get into skyhold shenanigans now lemme know if there's anything you'd wanna see.


	53. Bedrest and Other Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This took ages to write. I don't know why.
> 
> Anyway enjoy!
> 
> Cw: references to food scarcity, starvation, gastrointestinal parasites, induced vomiting, language

Lavellan was relegated to bed rest for two weeks while his fractured bones set the natural way. It would be another week afterwards until he'd be deemed fit enough to return to normal duties. 

To say he was less than pleased by this would be an understatement.

"I don't see why I have to stay in bed  _ all _ the time," he groused, cheeks a dark pink as he wiggled under Dorian's hands. "I can make it to the desk at the very least."

"Lavellan, you've fallen  _ twice _ in the day and a half you've been back," Dorian replied, not letting up on his ministrations. "They still can't get the blood out of the carpet."

"I'll be more careful," Lavellan promised, again.

Dorian shot him a disbelieving look before continuing to gently scrub at Lavellan's skin. Lavellan wiggled more. The healing tonics and magic had cleared the more minor cuts and scrapes, although the larger ones still readily bled around the stitches if he moved too much. The bruises, fractures, and breaks remained stubbornly unchanged. Then there were the splinters… it took hours to find and remove them all and even then they had somehow missed one until it had swelled days later. He felt bad for not noticing it before the surgeon had to cut it out, but he hadn't even felt it embedded in his deadened arm.

"You said that the last time too. I thought the poor serving girl was going to combust," Dorian tutted. Lavellan's bandages were now clean and fresh, albeit a little crooked, and the sweat and blood mopped up, much to his eternal embarrassment. He didn't know how he felt about Dorian playing caretaker for him, but he couldn't wait for it to end. "At least you were wearing smalls."

"I could've made it."

Dorian laughed, gently pressed him down into the bed, and smiled at him sweetly. "No, you really couldn't." 

Lavellan huffed. He would never admit it, but the mage was right. His good leg wasn't enough to compensate for the bulky cast on his bad leg, his chest still ached when he took a breath, and his vision swam when he stood. He wouldn't be going anywhere on his own any time soon. 

"Why do you wish to be at your desk, anyway?"

Lavellan's right hand was thoroughly indisposed and the Anchor made his left not useful for most tasks, as it tended to leave scorch marks if touched and his fingers struggled to keep a steady grip. He was currently unable to write, and his left hand could barely hold a spoon without dropping it, burning it, or snapping it. There was little for him to do at his desk, but still-

"It's not the bed I've been lying in for two days," he grumbled. "I want… I need to do  _ something _ or I'll go mad."

"I see," Dorian hummed. "Perhaps a book? Although ah, perhaps I can turn the pages for you." With his right hand still engulfed in the splint and cast, his poor copy of  _ The Crows Fallback: Poisons and How to Make Them Without Dying  _ succumbed to a chaotic mix of uncontrollable magical discharge and equally uncontrollable strength from his left. A shame, Lavellan was enjoying the read.

"That sounds terrible for both of us," Lavellan muttered despondently. 

"It does," Dorian agreed. "Perhaps, you could help Maevaris and I with a project then." Lavellan perked up, so Dorian took that as a resounding 'yes' and continued. "She and I have been talking reforms lately. We are considering making a coalition, to counter the Venatori in the magisterium."

"It's a good idea. Left unchecked they could make a power grab," Lavellan mused. More so than that, if they gained enough clout, they could bend the legislative system, making future changes more difficult and current life worse for those in the lower classes. From what he had read and from what Dorian had told him regarding the Tevinter political system, it was already a jumbled mess of loopholes, exceptions, and obscure laws. With enough push, they could set the country back by hundreds of years, just as planned.

"We thought so as well. There are a few interested parties, although the vetting process will need to be rather… intensive. Our first bill will be a denouncement, of sorts." 

Dorian sifted through some of the work he had brought, likely to find the manuscripts he was finalizing. Clearing his throat before beginning, Dorian started to read. Once the document was finished, someone, likely Maevaris, would deliver it to the assembled magisters in a scathing rebuke. Then, the magisterium would vote whether to pass the condemnation or not. It was more of a political stunt than any actual legislation, with little hope of passing.

Lavellan listened quietly, digesting the words, and humming at the end. 

"I'll be surprised if it gets a single vote," he eventually said. 

"Yes, well, it's more of a statement."

"Perhaps you could make that statement  _ and _ push for a bit of change. All you need is to hold resources hostage," Lavellan shot him a wicked smile. "Would you like to hear how?"

Dorian looked thoroughly pleased as he penned the accompanying letter to Maevaris, Lavellan's addendum attached. It was a cunning trap, in his opinion, hidden under a veneer of carefully worded patriotism, holding funding hostage for those in the Venatori without actually identifying them or offering any easy loopholes. He hoped it helped, and that it impressed Dorian.

He settled back and wondered if he could do more of this sort of thing, since he was allowed to do little else. It certainly helped improve his mood.

At least until Lady Montilyet knocked on his door half an hour later, with two servants laden with books, maps, and parchment and a third carrying a sort of tripod easel with a rolled up log of fabric. It didn't bode well and Lavellan watched with wary interest as the servants set about preparing the easel, unfurling a monstrous tapestry of the royal line of Empress Celene and its many branches and loops.

Creators, there were  _ many _ loops.

"Inquisitor, I am glad to hear that you are recovering well," she began. "We are thankful your injuries were not more severe."

"I would be quite difficult to replace," Lavellan replied uneasily. "You've brought quite the collection with you."

"Yes! Halamshiral is in seventy-six days and little has been done to prepare you for the intricacies of Orlesian politics. Fortunately I am available to teach you," she beamed. Lavellan's eyes widened in terror. He wondered if he could make it off the bed and escape. "While you are relieved from your usual duties, there is plenty of time to get started on etiquette and political history." 

Dorian seemed to assume that was his cue to leave, which he did with a kiss and a pat to Lavellan's cheeks. He ignored Lavellan's quiet plea for help with a smile.

"Now then, let us begin with the founding of Orlais-"

…….

"Woodworking is a man's craft. It isn't noble, and nobody thanks the carpenter for their work, but it's a fine skill not easily acquired," Blackwall explained, chiseling the edges off the scrap in his hands. "Dexterity, patience, and a keen eye- that's what makes a craftsman."

Lavellan glanced down at the block of softwood in his left hand, the Anchor leaving trailing filigree lines from where it pressed into his palm. If he held it any longer, it would likely combust. He looked at his right hand, still engulfed in the cast with only the tips of his fingers poking out. He was a fine mess.

"I imagine a working set of hands helps as well," Lavellan mused. 

Bull had been kind enough to help him escape his bed after three days of lectures stretched between bouts of restless sleep and empty periods of frustration. He was quite tired of needing so much assistance to do basic tasks- feeding himself, washing, even relieving himself. When the Qunari came by for a visit and offered to carry him down to the tavern, he readily agreed despite the compromising position.

"Cheer up, Smiles," Varric chuckled at him. "You'll be fit for duty quick enough."

"Having something to whittle away at will do you a lot of good," Blackwall added. "Makes the time go by faster."

The piece of wood in Lavellan's left hand burst into flames and he quickly dropped it. Cabot, who had been watching impassively, poured a flagon of ale to douse the small fire before returning to work. Bull whistled lowly while sipping at his giant tankard but remained nonplussed. Blackwall looked only mildly put-out before going back to his whittling, whatever he was making gradually coming into shape. 

"So the Lady Ambassador is getting you all ready for the ball? How's that going?" 

"I now know more than I ever wanted to about Orlais," Lavellan huffed. "The politics, the heraldry, the history, it's… it's a lot."

"Lavellan, you arse-biscuit," Sera interrupted from the story above. "Your nug's eating my cushions again!"

Lavellan sighed, "just pick him up and move him somewhere. He's more scared of you that you are of him."

"Who's scared? Just come up here and grab it!"

Lavellan wondered not for the first time about if the nug was worth it as he was hefted onto Bull's back. At least he wasn't being held like a baby this time. Varric and Sera mercifully did not bring up any talk of harnesses or saddles. 

"Fine, fine, I'm coming."

Several hours later, Lavellan found himself back in his prison of a bed after being manhandled up the stairs like a sack of potatoes by a Qunari after wrangling a palm-sized nug out of a cushion without squishing or burning it. By the end of his arguably short excursion, he was bone tired. His sheets had been replaced, given the lack of blood spots, and Lavellan somewhat gratefully sunk into the plush bedding as soon as the Bull had left. Or he would have if Cole hadn't suddenly appeared at the top of his stairs.

"I found your gift," the spirit said. "At least it was once. Think of it like a token, a promise of something new, together to the end."

"What is it?" Lavellan questioned, knowing better than to ask what he meant.

"I don't know." Cole shrugged before holding out a pendant of sorts. It was a Dalish craft, a rudimentary owl on one side and two ravens on the other, carved into a disc of bone. The sight of it made his head  _ ache _ and his chest constrict, but Lavellan eagerly took it regardless.

"Where did- I lost this at the Conclave," he managed to say. There was fog creeping over him now, and his temples throbbed angrily. He was liable to vomit or pass out at this rate.

"It was in a merchant's wares, lost, screaming in the dark. He'd want you to have it back." Cole was gone before Lavellan could ask about Mahanon. 

He fell back against the bed, still clutching the pendant, asleep before his head touched the pillow.

It was the shivering that woke him up later. Cracking open his bleary eyes, he tried looking to see if a balcony door had been left open, only to be met with fuzz and difficulty moving. Who had let the fire go out?

A warm hand brushed through his hair and over his sweaty forehead, and he closed his eyes and sighed. It felt nice and he made a little noise of protest when it slipped away. Blindly, he reached out for it, and hummed contentedly when it came back. A chuckle,  _ Dorian _ \- he'd recognize that cadence anywhere. 

"Easy, Amatus. You've an impressive fever," he said.

That would explain a great many things. 

"Don't tell the Keeper," he mumbled, nuzzling his face into the palm of Dorian’s hand when it paused. Did he get enough Embrium? Embrium was good for fevers.

"I won't," Dorian promised after a beat of hesitation, tucking the blankets around Lavellan's shoulders. It didn't help him feel any warmer when Dorian left.

……

Lavellan sighed and stared up at the high vaulted ceiling of his chambers. He'd about had it memorized at this point. 

After his sudden fever, Bull was no longer allowed to carry him anywhere, leaving him trapped in bed. Josephine had begun her lessons as soon as he was coherent enough, and had even recruited Madame de Fer to help. He was liable to go mad, cooped up, distant, and indisposed as he was.

People were at least coming to visit him intermittently. Sera popped by with some pastries stolen from the kitchens, Varric delivered some letters and taught him how to play Diamondback, Bull brought him one of Stitches' remedies that made him feel great for ten minutes and then knocked him out cold for half a day but cleared the last of his bruises. Blackwall gave him the wood carving he had been working on previously, a shaped sitting Halla, and Cassandra brought him several books of varying scandal and forced him to promise not to tell anyone she had them. Leliana brought their afternoon conversations over tea to him and Dorian flitted in and out as if to check on him, although he pretended as though he were visiting simply for Inquisition business. 

It made the days creep by.

The pen in his hands snapped, the third so far today, so Lavellan set the writing slate to the side with another sigh. He'd been attempting to learn to write with his left hand to little success. Practicing by writing letters or silly reports and short poems about nothing in particular. He'd been able to convince Cole to bring him pens, but the rest of the castle was starting to get suspicious as all their writing utensils mysteriously kept disappearing. Creators help him if anyone found the pile of broken and somewhat burned pens and quills or his embarrassing practice attempts he'd hidden under the bed. 

His handwriting was already an inelegant, messy scrawl, when faced with his shaky, deadened hand it was childish and illegible. No matter how many fine pens he snapped and quills he scorched, he couldn't seem to improve. It gave him  _ something _ to do, but it was frustrating and only seemed to hammer in just how incapacitated he had been left. 

He'd never felt so… useless. Weak, and powerless.

It had him feeling listless, unmotivated. He knew it was too much to ask for with his position, but he hoped never to feel this way again. 

……

The casts on Lavellan's leg and wrist had been removed two days ago and he hadn't been in his room since. Instead he had commandeered one side of Dorian's much smaller and less comfortable bed under the guise of it being accessible with fewer stairs. In reality it was not  _ his _ bed and not  _ his _ room. He doubted anyone bought his story, but they were at least accommodating. 

Lavellan gasped as Dorian moved his mouth lower, his staff-calloused hands smoothing over his hips and along the insides of his thighs. He was painfully hard from the lingering feeling of Dorian’s skin under his hands and on his tongue and he was close to begging for more. Unfortunately, the mage was being irritatingly gentle and slow with him, like he was liable to break again at any moment. It was maddening.

"Dorian-"

"You know, I found something interesting yesterday," Dorian said nonchalantly, hiking up Lavellan's bad leg over his shoulder. 

Lavellan grunted half in curiosity and half in impatience.

"A few notes had been hidden away with rather interesting contents," Dorian continued. "Mostly illegible but nothing a stunning and incredibly skilled scholar couldn't decipher."

An uneasy feeling crept under the heat of arousal burning under Lavellan's skin. Surely… it wasn't what he was thinking…

"Oh?" He asked, dreading the answer.

"Someone had transcribed a few rather charming and quite flattering renditions of Carmilla Fortilla's romantic poems. I'm not sure how she would feel about her muse being compared to my ass, however." Lavellan groaned and hid his face in his hands, feeling himself burn pink. "The one regarding the Iron Bull's chest was probably my favorite." Lavellan attempted to curl and wiggle away, but Dorian held firm while reciting, "'Like the weighty bounty of spring, they jiggle and jibe to the music of movement. Enchanting, alluring, and so very grey.'"

"Fenehdis- please tell me you haven't read all of them." He'd never be able to look Dorian in the eyes again.

"Oh yes. I can't believe you'd hide them in the first place. The one with all the swords-"

"Not the sword one-" he was going to die from embarrassment. 

"I  _ loved _ the sword one. However I am far more interested in the one regarding your feelings towards certain… positions. I'd be interested in trying a few out if you feel so able," Dorian said with a wink and an alluring slide of his hands.

Lavellan would admit he was tempted, and still painfully aroused despite his mortification. 

"Like… the one using the wall and the chair?" Dorian hummed in approval. "I would be quite able, yes."

"Very good," Dorian purred. "Afterwards we can talk about your destruction of all the pens in Skyhold."

……

Lavellan limped his way from the war room, down the hall, and through the throne room before taking a breather at Varric's table, short one Varric. After a moment catching his breath and giving his twinging leg a rest, he set out for the Rotunda. Leliana had moved their afternoon tea sessions back into her Rookery, and Lavellan was dreading the stairs that lay ahead. The fact that he would be free from his Orlesian lessons for a few hours was a fantastic motivator, however.

The Rotunda hadn't changed much since the last time he had been through a little over three weeks ago, although there was a fresh coat of primer for the next section of fresco. The ravens still flapped and cackled above the murmuring hum of scholars and spies, and everything smelled of birdshit and paint. He didn't know how anyone managed to get anything done.

"Inquisitor. I was waiting for you" Solas greeted. He was standing in front of his chaise with a frown.

"On dhea'him, hahren," Lavellan greeted in return. "Something wrong?"

"Perhaps. Is this yours?" Solas pointed down at a wiggling cushion.

This Blighted- "That would be mine, yes, sorry." Lavellan shuffled over with a sigh, reaching into the mess of torn silk and wadded up stuffing to pull out a squeaking, hand sized nug. "The Dread Nug has a mind of his own sometimes. Also a taste for fabric."

There was a heavy pause. Lavellan froze as his words caught up with him.

"Excuse me," Solas asked incredulously. " _ What  _ did you call it?"

The disapproval radiating from the apostate was so palpable he imagined everyone in the Rotunda could feel it. Lavellan straightened and tensed like a hare with an eagle overhead as he contemplated apologizing or running. He didn't think Solas would care, but then again he was a scholar of ancient elven history. 

Probably best to just run then.

"I uh- I should go. We will talk later, hahren." 

Unfortunately he couldn't exactly run, so he hurriedly and awkwardly wobbled up the stairs, unable to meet Solas' eyes. By the time he reached the top of the stairs he was out of breath and his ribs burned too much to continue. It wasn't his smoothest exit, but it would have to do. Dorian was mercifully absent from his alcove, so Lavellan rested in his chair and rubbed at his throbbing leg, marveling at how incredibly uncomfortable the seat was. 

The nug in his hand wiggled in a desperate attempt to eat the chair, signaling that it was probably time to move on, so on he went. The number of mages had dropped significantly now that a mage tower had been restored, replaced instead by an alarming number of agents. Elves, humans, a few dwarves- 

Their numbers  _ tripled _ on the top floor. 

"Inquisitor," Leliana greeted.

"Is it just me, or are your agents multiplying?"

Leliana chuckled, "the good works of the Inquisition inspire many. I worried you would be unable to come this far."

Lavellan waved a wand and smiled, "a few stairs aren't anything too strenuous. Besides, I appreciate the exercise after so much bedrest."

"It is a shame magic can not do more for certain ailments." She gestured him over to her table, a kettle of tea already steaming away. "I remember when the Hero of Fereldan broke several fingers while trying to pick a lock." She paused right before she went to pour. "I do not mean to be rude, but your sleeve is wiggling."

"Oh, right," Lavellan groaned, fishing the nug out. "This is the Dread Nug, or as Dorian prefers, 'Archon Nugustus the third'. He's been a terror and I'm not entirely sure what to do about him."

Leliana looked at the tiny nug with what he assumed was unbridled excitement and adoration under all the unreadable layers of guarded stoicism. "If you would like, I could take him in. I have experience with animals."

A quick glance around the Rookery (and at a few letters he had stumbled upon) pointed to this being a grievous understatement. "I would feel better knowing he was in your capable hands."

The door behind Leliana opened and Lavellan couldn't stifle his groan. Lady Montilyet laughed as she poked her head around the doorway, followed by an almost-amused Madame de Fer.

"I'm feeling awfully betrayed," he grumbled. 

"I do not recall saying anything about this not including a lesson in Orlesian tea customs."

Lavellan chanced a glance back towards the stairs only to find Charter and Fisher surreptitiously blocking them. He didn't even get to look at the railing before Lady Montilyet tutted, his last escape attempt still probably fresh in her mind.

"Do not even think about it," she huffed. "Now then, let us begin with a brief synopsis of Orlesian tea."

……

"Silly question but-"

"There are no silly questions, Inquisitor," Lady Montilyet clarified gently.

"Right." Lavellan glanced back down to the array before him. "Just a question then. Why are there so many forks?"

Lady Montilyet shot him a look that was patient but also screamed that his question was in fact a bit silly. "Each one serves a different purpose. The one on the left is a meat fork, beside it is the vegetable fork, then the appetizer fork, the savory salad fork, the sweet salad fork, and perpendicular to those is the two-tined fruit fork."

Lavellan nodded and swallowed thickly. Six forks. Perfect sense.

"Do try not to get them confused. It's quite the faux pas, as the Orlesians say," Dorian suggested, not at all daunted by the startling amount of silverware in front of him.

"The Empress has requested a dinner with you after the peace talks," Leliana added. "It is quite the honor, and is expected to be quite informal. No need to worry."

"It is rather unprecedented, but it will be a valuable opportunity to solidify a partnership with Orlais. It is in our best interests for this to go smoothly."

"I see." Lavellan looked back down at the six forks, four spoons, four knives, corkscrew, and set of thimbles before him and despaired. This was the  _ informal _ table setting? What did the formal one look like? "It probably goes without saying that I haven't had too many dinners with royalty. I'm not sure what I'm doing."

He hadn't done more than spend about ten minutes at any sort of Orlesian high society event. But dinner with the Empress…

He'd rather fight Corypheus in the nude.

A set of servants laden with trays filed in, delivering a small dish of fruits covered in some sort of shiny dust and a fluted, crystal bowl of seafoam green pudding. 

"Because this is an informal meal, it will only have five courses instead of eight," Lady Montilyet explained. "This is the first, commonly referred to as the petty offal."

Lavellan watched how the Ambassador and Nightingale ate first before making his own attempt, his hand gently and wordlessly corrected by Dorian. A skewer of strawberry then a dollop of pudding, barring the color, it looked rather appetizing. Until it hit his tongue.

Lavellan coughed, shuddered, and gently set down his spoon and fork. "Falon'din guide me to the beyond, what- what  _ is _ this?"

"Ah yes, half the enjoyment from eating Orlesian cuisine is watching others  _ eat _ the Orlesian cuisine," Dorian mused. 

"It tastes of burning," Lavellan said, before tentatively testing just the pudding. "And scorn."

"Eat some more, it'll deaden your tongue," Dorian suggested.

"That's a good thing?"

"For the next course, yes."

Lady Montilyet gently cleared her throat. "Typically the petty offal is designed to prepare one's palate for the next course, usually consisting of a soup or gelatin."

More servants appeared carrying bowls with steam-filled glass lids and Lavellan felt his stomach clench in fearful anticipation. Or food poisoning. The revealed soup looked unassuming at first, just a simple shade of beige with floating specks of white and green. It smelled like loam after rain.

Curious, he took a tentative sip and marveled, "this tastes exactly like dirt."

The third course went similarly as the last two, consisting of some foul concoction of a salad that appeared as though someone had just tossed everything in the kitchen into a bowl, served with a slice of bread hard enough to shatter a Bronto's teeth. During the meal, Lady Montilyet described the use of retching vases and where they were located and how nobles would frequently use parasites to aid with such a gluttonous lifestyle. Lavellan tried not to think about the memory he had where he was left boiling down bark for soup and instead wondered who would actually  _ eat _ this 'food' to the point of overindulgence. The fourth dish, the principal plat as Lady Montilyet named it, was some kind of boiled dove that left Lavellan feeling a strong and unfounded wash of shame and melancholy. He wiped the unbidden tears from his eyes and mourned… something. The last course, the dessert, was a pile of sugared flowers topped with more shiny, encrusted fruits. 

Tentatively he skewered the head of a flower and nearly wept as it hit his tongue. Finally, some good fucking food. 

"Either my sense of taste has been ruined, or this is actually delicious."

Dorian laughed loudly over the rim of his wine glass, nearly spilling it as Leliana shook her head fondly. 

"My dear Inquisitor, those are a garnish. Please do not eat them in front of the Empress."

……

Dorian woke to cold toes and a still dark sky outside the window. He was alone in the bed, which was quite unusual for the time of night. He'd been sharing his bed with Lavellan for weeks, a blessing given that the elf was a furnace and a novelty because he still marveled at sleeping and waking beside someone. He could curl around Lavellan and instead of being pushed away, Lavellan would snuggle closer. There were no  _ 'maybe you should leave _ 's in the morning, only  _ 'stay a little longer _ 's. It made waking up in the middle of the night to an empty bed something he was no longer accustomed to. Groggy, Dorian sat up and looked around his room for any sign of the elf. 

Perhaps he went back to his own, more comfortable bed? 

The very thought was absurd and he dismissed it as soon as it came. Lavellan had been cooped up in his quarters for weeks and was quite vocal about how little he enjoyed it. Not to mention the way he struggled with stairs… No, it was more likely that he hadn't been able to sleep and had wandered somewhere not far.

Dorian huffed. Now  _ he  _ couldn't sleep.

Tossing aside the covers and shivering in the draft now touching his exposed skin, Dorian set about putting on just enough clothing to not scandalize anyone before sauntering out of his room and onto the ramparts. Skyhold was always a little chilly, like the first few days of spring, but at night it became quite cold. He didn't linger.

There were a few places he knew Lavellan frequently haunted, but none at this particular hour. He liked the tavern, particularly the barstool just to the right, close to the stairs so he could hide out of sight of Maryden. He also enjoyed reading atop one of the decrepit towers along the ramparts, usually before his morning meeting in the war room. He frequented Varric's table and the Undercroft at seemingly random times, and he enjoyed wandering the Rotunda but not for long stretches. 

Dorian didn't make it further than two steps into the throne room before a sweet, buttery,  _ delicious _ smell hit his nose. 

Almonds, sugar, cinnamon- Dorian followed it down to the kitchens, curious and suddenly just a little hungry despite the hour. Quietly he slipped down the few stairs and into the warm and dimly lit kitchen. Inside stood Lavellan, engrossed in slicing up a pile of apples into thin slices, unaware of his presence. 

Dorian waited until he set the knife down before calling, "Lavellan?"

Lavellan jolted, whirled, and turned pink. "Dorian- sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"What are you doing? Aside from enjoying the kitchens, that is." He yawned. 

Lavellan shrugged, "I couldn't sleep." 

The smell of almonds hit a crescendo and Lavellan moved over to the large stone oven to wordlessly pull a tray of cookies out with a thick cloth. 

"So you came here to bake? What a quaint and fascinating man you are." Dorian eyed the cookies with interest. "What is keeping you from sleep this time? Fade dreams? Calls from the Old Gods? Don't tell me I  _ snore _ ."

Lavellan hesitated, went back to slicing up his apples, and eventually mumbled, "I'm just feeling out of my depth, is all."

Dorian stared at Lavellan for a moment. 

He had watched as the elf charged into battle with no hesitancy and as he had cut down people without a second thought. He fought in battles against dragons and darkspawn and terrible demons and weathered a siege against an impregnable fortress. He had even faced down Corypheus and his archdemon by himself. While he expressed concern and fear for his comrades, he'd remained stalwart and impressively brave through it all. He was a gorgeous, steady rock- except, apparently, if nobility was involved.

"You weren't like this for Adamant, unless I somehow missed it," Dorian questioned, attempting to pluck a still hot cookie from the tray. A bit of frost coating his fingers did wonders. 

"I knew what I was getting into with Adamant," he replied. "More or less. Falling into the Fade was a surprise." He shook his head. "Fighting is easy and straightforward."

"Compared to Adamant, Halamshiral will be a breeze. Waltz in, chat a bit, do a little espionage, save the Empress or don't, and then we all go back home and see what new troubles await." Dorian moaned a little as he took a bite, there was nutmeg in there too. "You'll have little trouble charming all the guests and royalty while nobly thwarting any dastardly plots. You happen to be very charming and noble. It helps."

"You have a lot of faith in me," Lavellan muttered. He did not look encouraged- in fact he looked even more nervous than before.

"Perhaps. Either way, you will be amongst friends. All of your advisors will be there, as will Cassandra, Varric, and I. Madame de Fer will attend at the behest of the Empress and Bull and his Chargers will be our escort company. You won't be alone." 

Lavellan still looked unswayed but his death grip on the paring knife let up.

"I'm quite certain I'm going to end up embarrassing myself," he groaned. 

"What in Andraste's blessed dust is that fantastic smell?" Varric's awed voice carried from atop the stairs, where he stood disheveled in sleeping clothes that looked a lot like his normal clothes.

"Ah, Varric," Dorian replied, beckoning the dwarf down. "You're just in time. Come and join us for some two in the morning reaffirmations."

"Don't mind if I do," the dwarf said as he took a seat across from the mage, evaluated the state of Lavellan, and grabbed a cookie. "Somehow I didn't expect you to be able to bake- or cook. You are just full of surprises, Smiles."

"Our dear Inquisitor is worried he'll do terrible at Halamshiral," Dorian drawled, helping himself to another cookie. Lavellan huffed, his cheeks turning pink, but he didn't deny any words- or sweets.

"What! The nobles are going to go crazy for you." Varric reached for another cookie. "If there's one thing they go head over heels for, it's interesting characters with mysterious backgrounds. You tick both boxes."

"As a noble, I can confirm this."

"A mysterious background won't save me from making a fool of myself," Lavellan countered sourly.

"Maybe not," Varric shrugged. "But that's when we just accidentally set some other noble to steal the show. All we need is a block of wood, a mirror, and two paper fans."  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Instead of a billion tiny chapters just have all of them in one. 
> 
> Now that is a great bundle
> 
> Next up, art appreciation in the Dales


	54. Into the Graves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fellas head to the Dales!
> 
> Cw: violence and injury (it's Lavellan are we surprised)

"It's true what they say," Dorian said. "Art is immortal."

"This is certainly some fine  _ art _ , that's for sure," Bull rumbled in agreement. "Your ancestors really had an eye for detail, Boss."

"It certainly is remarkable, weathering so many centuries and still remaining so robust," Lavellan mused. "And so rotund."

Solas sighed heavily from a short distance away, staring off into the endless green expanse.

The three others continued admiring the large portrait of an ancient elf warrior, magically enameled into the surface of the stone just off the wooded path. The Dales were full of such art, the Emerald Graves more so than most others. Most did not have a lovingly rendered backside to moon at. That was probably for the best.

"There's a path leading towards the river, heading northeast," Bull said eventually, pointing towards the distant stream.

"Leliana did say there was a campsite that way," Lavellan replied, tearing his eyes from the mural's ass reluctantly. "Let's try to find a way across. The château Fairbanks mentioned should be nearby."

The underbrush of the Graves was a dense tangle- easy enough for Lavellan and Solas to step through, and for Bull to tear through, but Dorian struggled to find his footing. Lavellan felt a little bad for him, but relished the nostalgic feel of the dirt and plants under his feet. They would at least struggle equally when crossing the rushing river that cut through the eastern stretch of land. 

"How's the armor?" Bull asked, sidestepping a fern with a bit more grace than someone his size should have. Compared to the two elves it wasn't saying much.

"It fits like a dream. Dagna outdid herself and the Keeper made it water resistant and quite warm." Lavellan chuckled, "I haven't felt this cozy in a long time."

"I recall seeing your armor after the Conclave," Solas said. "It must comfort you to have it restored."

"It does," Lavellan replied, wistful and with a palpable smile. "Wearing the traditional armor of the Dalish… it brings back memories. Although the style differs from what I remember wearing."

"So your memories of before the Conclave are returning? I wonder if what happened in the Fade unlocked them." Dorian attempted to sidestep a gnarled root. He failed and stumbled.

"It may have. I certainly remember everything from the Fade now. Unfortunately." Lavellan grimaced. "But everything else is rather spotty **,** places and people but I can't place any names."

"Yet, at least."

"I hope so. I think you were right though, Bull. When you said I was from a Fereldan clan."

"I know my accents, even Dalish ones," Bull said, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "A brogue like yours is hard to mistake."

"I thought you were from the Free Marches," Dorian questioned. "Does that mean Clan Lavellan is from Fereldan?" 

"Possibly. Many clans left Fereldan during the Blight, if they didn't stay to help the Wardens." 

Lavellan froze as they approached the riverbank, staring at the shriveled, winding weeds growing up from the gravel with interest. Nearby, a rift crackled as a couple Shades below it patrolled aimlessly. They were disposed easily enough and Lavellan quickly went back to staring at the foul plant.

"What in Andraste's name is that awful looking thing?"

"Felandaris," Lavellan replied, frowning at it thoughtfully. "It's good for poisons and warding tonics. It's rare outside of Blightlands and areas where the Veil is intact, but it's hard to actually collect without it turning to dust. It's also… toxic to elves. Just the touch of it causes burns."

"Ah, so you need someone to get it for you then." Dorian adjusted his gloves in preparation of touching the thorny and oddly slimy looking plant. 

Lavellan tugged him back gently. "Preferably from someone who won't be touching me later. I don't need a rash anywhere sensitive." Bull laughed loudly as Dorian spluttered and blushed. "I'll ask Leliana to send some of her herbalist scouts to collect it. Let's look for a way across this river before it gets dark."

"You got it boss," Bull chuckled, leading a still grumbling Dorian off to scout the river.

"You know a great deal about what grows in the world, da'len," Solas said.

"Thank you, hahren," Lavellan shot him a smile, but it faded when he saw the twisted stems of Felandaris weed in his unblemished hands. If it was burning him, or causing any discomfort, he didn't show it. An uneasy shiver crept down his spine. "Solas, are you-"

"Do not worry, it's a simple spell to keep from being affected. I will let Bull carry them to camp," Solas replied. 

"I see," Lavellan muttered, not quite convinced but uncertain. He didn't know much about magic- perhaps there was such a spell. He could ask Dorian later.

He stepped closer, and Lavellan managed to tear his eyes away from the thorny stems to glance at him curiously. He'd been poisoned by such plants before, and the burning ache was a low throb under his skin. 

"It is good that you are regaining your memories, but do not let what you discover cloud your path," Solas warned. "You have been called to serve a higher purpose-"

"Hey Boss," Iron Bull called, interrupting the two. "There's a bridge further downstream."

The bridge sat low above the rush of the waters, and it also happened to be completely surrounded by humans wearing a hodgepodge of armor, mostly Orlesian in fashion, the hallmark of the Free Men of the Dales. A supply cart stood nearby, surrounded by blood splattered sacks and tents. Likely, they had forcibly acquired their little camp and were now imposing a toll.

"These Free Men truly are just bandits with polished armor," Solas observed.

"Shall we go say hello?" Dorian asked.

"Of course, although," Lavellan hummed, reaching back for his greatsword. "I hope we can afford to pay to cross."

The Free Men of the Dales were expecting them, not surprising since they had been hounding the Inquisition forward camps for weeks. Their bravado when faced with the Inquisitor, two mages, and single large Qunari was admirable in a way, although rather misplaced. It also did not last long. They were dispatched with ease, and the four carried on to secure the next campsite for the Inquisition.

It was slow going; the paths were hidden under foliage or were in the process of losing ground to its rapid spread and anything abandoned seemed lost to the forest, including way markers and landmarks. Giant statues of Andraste poked out from between trees like chiseled islands in a sea of untamed wilderness. It seemed like a waste of perfectly good forest, in Lavellan's opinion. 

Another group of Free Men blocked the way up ahead. "Don't these people have anything better to do?"

"Doesn't seem like it," Bull replied. 

Lavellan sighed, "the campsite is right up that slope. Let's move them, send off a raven, and keep moving. It would be nice to be indoors before it gets dark."

"I've never been to a haunted countryside mansion before," Dorian mused. "I fear every party at a mansion will be quite dull in comparison now."

"I imagine the excess of Tevinter will solve that quite quickly," Solas quipped. "If such tales are true."

"I did once attend a 'sky walking party' in a little hamlet called Hestus once. The vertigo was nauseating. I'll admit I didn't stay long." 

"Oh," Bull said absently, "I think I was there for that one. The champagne tower made a huge mess when the spell flickered."

" _ You _ were the Qunari in the back room?"

"With the harness, yeah."

Dorian hummed thoughtfully. "What a small world."

"Really adds a new spin on 'riding the Bull'," Lavellan muttered, but he did not look put off.

"Perhaps we should focus on the task at hand." Solas sighed. "And never talk about this again."

The three shrugged, and together the four trudged up the hill to fight more of the Free Men. Losing their stronghold in the west had seemingly done little to demoralize them or impact their numbers. A few soldiers and a single disgraced guardsman blocked the path, with three archers behind them in a row, while another stood atop a cliff, keeping watch. It was this archer that warned of their approach. 

Unlike the smaller party of thugs, this group was larger and had evidence of training in the way they handled themselves and their weaponry. These were proper military deserters, not the drafted dregs that dodged the war to prey on refugees instead. They still fell to Bull's greataxe and Lavellan's greatsword, Dorian's fire and ice, and the primal force of Solas' magic, but they scored a few hits of their own. 

The battle dragged; the guardsman blocking the heavy swings of Bull's axe and the archers pinning the mages behind cover. The archer on the cliff took potshots at them, landing an arrow into the meat of Bull's shoulder. He grunted at the impact and hissed when he yanked it out, but otherwise didn't seem outwardly bothered. The soldiers all teamed against Lavellan, who could only move during the few openings they offered. It was a lucky strike that caught and sliced off the guardsman's arm, and Bull turned towards the soldiers next while the mages harried the archers on the ground. The archer on the cliff then landed another hit- grazing Lavellan's ear with an arrow, tearing into it.

The elf shouted in agony, clapping a hand over the gush of blood and glaring furiously up at the archer who seemed to have realized his mistake too late.

"Dread Wolf devour your heart and drink your tears," Lavellan cursed. "Bull, send me up, like we practiced."

The Qunari dutifully stooped, holding his axe horizontal and steady as a rock as Lavellan bounded for him. Stepping onto the handle of the axe, he was lifted up like on a springboard, flying upwards. The momentum guided his sword, and with a roar he cleaved the archer on the cliff in half vertically before dropping to the ground as gracefully as a cat and twice as murderous. 

Suffice to say the fight didn't last much longer.

Gingerly, Lavellan cupped his still bleeding ear and winced, but easily let the Iron Bull move his hand and chin to inspect it.

The Qunari whistled. "Lucky you didn't lose your ear."

"Please tell me it feels worse than it looks."

"It looks pretty bad, Kadan." He hummed, glanced to Dorian, but didn't move his hands away. "Think you can fix this?"

Dorian scoffed. "Of course. I've gotten quite proficient since joining the Inquisition, thanks to our Inquisitor," he replied flippantly. The way he stared at where the Qunari's hands held Lavellan's wrist and chin was anything but. He didn't know how he felt about it, but he'd like for it to stop. He may have been a bit more forceful than necessary when pushing Bull out of the way.

Gently he cupped Lavellan's ear, tutting as the elf flinched away, and began feeding healing magic towards the gash. The skin began to knit back together well enough but "this is going to leave quite the scar." Lavellan made a disappointed and pained noise.

"Just another to add to the collection." 

"Oh, and you've seen his collection, then?" Dorian rolled his eyes, but Lavellan's cheeks turned a telling bright pink and he glanced away. They both froze.

That was not what he was expecting.

Solas immediately wandered off towards the cleared pathway as Bull made an eloquent, "uh."

"Well." Dorian desperately tamped down the flare of something sour bubbling up from his stomach. Lavellan looked at him worriedly. It didn't help. "Onwards we go then."

He ignored the looks passed between the elf and Qunari and followed after Solas. The group was quiet all the way to the campsite, as Lavellan attached a note to the leg of a waiting raven, and all the way to the gate of the abandoned château as the sun was beginning to set. 

"Fairbanks was correct. Most of the refugees could take shelter here, if it is as empty as he believes." 

"Let's hope the ghost haunting it happens to just be rats," Lavellan said.

The château was absurdly massive, situated on the edge of the cliffside overlooking the rest of the sprawling verdant forest. In typical Orlesian fashion, the design was superfluous to the point of excess and headache, with an elongated front courtyard full of elaborate statues, lion fountains, and a winding hedge maze that led to the first foyer. It was completely dark by the time they managed to get through the door.

"Looks like the side room is clear," Bull announced after poking his head through a door. "Solas and I can take the first watch. We have a chess game to finish."

Solas hummed approvingly. "I believe I had the next move. Mage to C4."

"Arishok to H4," Bull grumbled as Lavellan and Dorian slunk to the side room without glancing at each other or bothering to fight. "You call your Tamassrans Mages?"

Dorian couldn't say he was pleased with Bull essentially forcing them into a room together, but Lavellan at least looked similarly unenthusiastic about their coming  _ talk _ . He supposed that's how these things went while in… serious relationships. He'd still rather not.

As soon as the latch was turned Lavellan turned to him with crossed arms. "Okay, what's gotten you upset?"

Dorian didn't actually know. 

"I'm not  _ upset _ ." He  _ was _ feeling a bit crushed, however. Maybe even a little nervous. Even though he knew what Lavellan did before entering this sort of arrangement with him was none of his concern. He just…

The Iron Bull?

Really.

"Well  _ something _ is wrong." He deflated a bit. "I can't help if I don't know what it is."

That was… fair enough. But how to explain the awful, bitter feeling in his heart? It wasn't jealousy, but something similar. An uglier thing he hadn't felt in a long while.

"I suppose I just wonder if-" he cut himself off before he got too candid. "You and the Bull had something good going on, I take it?"

Lavellan looked at him blankly. "We fucked a few times during the month or so after the start of the Inquisition. It was hardly anything worth dwelling on."

"You two certainly parted on quite friendly terms."

Visibly confused, the elf opened his mouth only to pause and come to some kind of realization. "So that's what this is about." A soft smile crept across his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "I didn't think you could feel insecure, confident as you always seem."

Dorian spluttered. "I am  _ not _ insecure- I just-" the denials withered on his tongue. Lavellan had seen through him easily enough already.

"Dorian, ma'vhenan," Lavellan purred, "are you worried I'll leave you for Bull?" He shook his head but was still smiling. "I'm sorry to ever give you such an impression."

"I am not worried," he grumbled. "Why would I be worried? That's absurd."

The elf laughed and moved forward to tug at Dorian's crossed arms. "You're right, how silly of me." 

It wasn't unusual in Tevinter amongst those with his prefences. He flitted between flings just as much as anyone did- but Lavellan wasn't a fling for him. He knew he wasn't for Lavellan either, the elf had told him as much, but it was a hard thought to drop.

"He is quite a man," Dorian mumbled. "If you were to-" the press of Lavellan's lips against his cut him off.

"You are all I want," Lavellan breathed between kisses, his hands roaming up Dorian's chest to fiddle with the clasps.

"Really? Here in this haunted mansion?"

"Why not?" Lavellan shrugged. "It doesn't seem so bad."

A molding painting of the Empress suddenly fell to the floor as the fire went out in a puff of smoke.

"On second thought… perhaps we should-"

"Shelve this for later? I couldn't agree more."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've found two elf murals in the dales with their butts out
> 
> I'm convinced there is a third
> 
> And also they didn't like pants way back when.


	55. Gift Giving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wowow it's been 2 weeks since I updated this fic holy crap
> 
> Sorry friends, I don't know why this is
> 
> Especially since it's quite short. Anyway heads up that my already sad and sporadic update times will be even more sad and sporadic
> 
> But I'm working on a little special something for my bff involving Dragon Age world building, Ecology, and friendship so I may be distracted

Lavellan was not as keen to be back in Val Royeaux as Dorian was. Due in part to the smells wafting from the various restaurants and food stalls and because he had been recently inundated with so much information on the Empire, he'd been reciting it in his sleep. It was quite unnerving to hear in the middle of the night. But for Dorian, it offered a chance to finally check in on that gift he had planned so very long ago now.

"You look pleased, darling. Something good at the market?" Vivienne inquired without ever looking away from the selection of intricate perfumes gracing every flat surface of the shop.

"As good as possible, given how small a market it is. The bazaar of Vyrantium has spoiled me rotten, I suppose."

That got Vivienne to glance his way. "I'm sure the Inquisitor will appreciate your gift regardless."

Dorian tamped down the initial defensive burst of denial and deflection. And failed. "It could be for me, you know."

"Of course."

The two mages slipped into a mostly companionable silence as they waited for the Inquisitor and Josephine to finish their meeting with the Count. They had worked together for months now- in the Inquisition and on side projects regarding research and restoring the Circles in the south, and regarding reforms for both the Circles and Colleges, as well as in Tevinter. It was an uneasy friendship, both being too politically charged to do more than peek around the walls they had built for so long. 

Dorian hesitated before attempting nonchalance and asking, "you've known the Inquisitor for some time, yes?"

"I contacted the Inquisition, namely the Herald, as soon as the news arrived of its creation. It has been nearly a year now."

"I see." Dorian faltered. His curiosity burned eternal and Lavellan was endlessly fascinating and always amiable and open to answering his questions, but he didn't always know what he wanted to ask. Or _who_ to ask. "When you first met him-"

Commotion at the door cut off his question before it could even form. The proprietor of the store had rushed to greet the Inquisitor and attempt to loudly push his wares. Every Orlesian merchant seemed to think Lavellan was quite wealthy, being the appointed Inquisitor and all, when in reality he was one of two members of the organization to not receive even the most meager of weekly stipends. 

A stable boy had more money on hand than the Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, potential savior of the world. 

Josephine quickly and politely took the reins of the rather one-sided conversation at the door, leaving Lavellan to slip by and approach the two mages. All for the best really, as Josephine was the one in charge of the coffers. Supposedly, she even had a vault somewhere in Skyhold.

"Hope we didn't keep you waiting for long," Lavellan greeted warmly. A small wrapped bundle was in his hands, the butcher paper shriveling under the pull of the Anchor. "I believe Varric and Cole will be here soon."

"Not long at all. Everything sorted?"

The elf nodded, "the House of Repose won't bother Lady Montilyet any further." 

Cole and Varric arrived at the door next, causing another commotion and signaling that it was now time to leave. Filing out and leaving Josephine and Vivienne to make a customary purchase, since it was rude to leave an Orlesian merchant's shop without buying at least _something_ , they wandered through the streets and alleys to the inn. 

Varric and Cole chatted up ahead, the dwarf managing a startled laugh from the spirit, and the agents shadowing them were munching on caramel pears from a passing food stall. The crowds moved around them, not recognizing the Inquisitor without all his emblazoned regalia but wary of the strange group they made. It was a pleasant change of pace from all the hiking and murdering and camping.

The inn had him changing his mind.

"The near infinite supply and wealth of the Inquisition," Dorian drawled, "and it got us this?" A mismatched shutter caught by the breeze smacked the peeling side of the inn despondently. "Really. What even is the point of all the holiness and devotion? Varric made it sound as though cults were a profitable business."

"It's not so bad," Lavellan replied. "It has a roof and everything."

"Your standards are incredibly low."

He shrugged, accepting the accusation. "I can't argue with that. I'll be happy if they have a bed with pillows."

The hotel did in fact have beds with pillows. Unfortunately, the Inquisition could only afford three rooms, with two beds each. Dorian supposed he could easily share a room with anyone in their little party, but he followed Lavellan into his assigned room anyway. It was… shoddier than expected.

"Do they not know who you are?" Dorian huffed, setting his pack down on a wooden chair with a concerning wobble.

"Nope," Lavellan hummed happily, flopping onto one of the beds. "I got you something."

"Oh?" 

Dorian bought Lavellan a present as well- awhile ago, but it hadn't been ready until now. 

Giving gifts was one of the few forms of showing affection he was familiar with. He was, however, unfamiliar with the intent behind gifts from Lavellan. He received gifts from his parents, laden with expectations, from others of his social status, to impress and bribe, and from lovers, also to impress and bribe. Gifts weren't given in Tevinter without reason. He hadn't figured out the reason behind most of his gifts from Lavellan. He hoped they all shared the same rationale as the rare few he gave Lavellan in turn. 

Lavellan sat up and handed his little bundle to Dorian, glancing apologetically at the singed wrapping. "Sorry, I burned the paper a little. Hopefully the contents are unscathed."

Dorian chuckled, long since used to the strange, more visceral, side-effects of the Anchor, and he eagerly unwrapped the little bundle to find a pile of soft leather and fluffy fur trim. It was pleasantly warm in his hands.

Gloves, snowfleur from the looks of them, and thrumming with the threads of enchantment. 

Lavellan smiled softly, "the mages told me they would keep your hands warm and dry, no matter how cold and wet."

Dorian stared at the gloves with a mix of awe and wonder. Lavellan's gifts always seemed to do that- rattle him in new and unusual ways, making him rethink things he held as truth. The simplicity behind them was the most confusing aspect. One would think it would add a layer of triviality to them, instead it only seemed to make them more meaningful, more knowing, more personalized to him. ' _It reminded me of you_ ', or ' _I thought of you'_. How thrilling a concept, to be on someone's mind often enough to warrant so much attention. 

_Gloves_ \- because Lavellan knew his hands were always cold and using his own magic to heat them grew tiring. 

"This… this makes what I bought you pale in comparison," Dorian managed past the warm lump in his throat. 

He slid a set of belts attached to a satchel from his pack, the leather embossed with trailing vines and leaves with intricately wrought buckles and clasps, as well as a set of parchment diagrams. Presenting it all to Lavellan and feeling as though it wasn't quite as thoughtful. Lavellan's eyes lit up all the same as he ran his fingers over the belts and satchel, inspecting the contents curiously. 

"It's a potions belt. A proper one that can hold more flasks- and it can hold tools. I don't know what tools one actually uses to trim leaves or pluck flowers but…" Dorian trailed off as Lavellan quietly held the gift he had agonized over getting just so. 

"Dorian," Lavellan eventually whispered, finally looking up. "This is- I don't know what to say." 

"You like it then?" Dorian hoped he didn't sound as though he were fishing for approval.

Lavellan shook his head, and Dorian's heart dropped until- "I _love_ it." His fingers went back to trailing the embossing, reverently. His smile was warm and fond and impossibly bright. "It's perfect, truly."

Relief washed over him and had him gesturing to the stack of parchment. "I bought the designs off the leathersmith as well, so that you and Dagna could play with them."

Eagerly Lavellan unfolded the parchment and scanned over the designs. "Everyone could carry more potions." Lavellan grinned, gently set the belt and parchment to the side, and stood to wrap his arms around Dorian's waist. "Ma'vhenan, this is a wonderful gift."

Dorian happily returned the hold, relieved and pleased that his gift was so well received, and melted into the kiss pressed to his lips. Lavellan's hands wandered and his mouth opened easily under the gentle onslaught of affection. Dorian had always enjoyed spoiling his lovers, chancy as it always was to do, but never had it felt like this. 

Lavellan tugged him towards one of the beds, fingers working on undoing the many clasps and buckles of his robes. Dorian did the same, easily undoing the column of ivory buttons of Lavellan's simple silk tunic, endlessly grateful the elf left the armor back in Skyhold. Once divested of his tunic, Dorian ran his hands along Lavellan's chest, pushing him down into the firm bed and tracing the myriad of scars with his fingers and delving deep into his mouth with his tongue. Lavellan went back easily, humming happily at the touch, but his fingers struggled with some of the more complicated clasps.

Dorian laughed at the elf's little noise of frustration and took mercy on him, easily unfastening and unhooking his clothes until they were both down to just pants and leggings respectively. Now that they were detached for the moment, Dorian pulled back to take in the sight of Lavellan, sprawled out on his back and flushed pink as he caught his breath. Dorian traced shapes along the slopes and grooves of his muscled chest, cataloging scars and freckles as Lavellan shivered at the touch. 

His left hand was fisted in the sheets, no doubt dissolving them slowly, but the other reached up to gently tug Dorian's head back down for more kisses. They were less hurried than the previous ones, but no less passionate- Lavellan had a penchant for nipping, sucking, and a certain fondness for Dorian's tongue that had him melting under his hands and mouth. 

" _Amatus_ ," he murmured into the scar tissue under Lavellan's jaw, kissing his way up to the lobe of his ear. "How do you feel about magic in bed?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Lavellan purred. "What do you have in mind?"

"A stunning little trick involving static that I think you'll love…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> Next up; Dorian gets his birthright


	56. The Magister's Birthright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ughhhhhhhhh this took ages to write and I still don't like it. But hey, just another stepping stone to the stuff I do wanna write.

Dorian hummed as he added his newly acquired books to the already over-encumbered bookshelves surrounding his alcove. He was rapidly running out of space, and Fiona's books were getting pushed further and further away. Perhaps he could begin taking over Lavellan's bookshelves next.

Lady Montilyet had politely asked him to stay in the Inquisitor's quarters from now on so that his room could go to someone else. He had agreed to it, understanding the purpose behind the request and secretly delighted to be closer to Lavellan, his bed, and his bathtub. It was no less daunting an endeavor and in scale, and he was still admittedly quite cagey about acknowledging the situation. Lavellan never commented on him taking the long way to get to the room, or the strange hours he'd pop in and out, or in regards to more of Dorian’s items appearing next to his. 

He had so many books of his own already, he probably wouldn't even ever realize Dorian was adding his own.

He'd never shared a space like this before though, and while he was aware Lavellan would easily tell him he didn't like or approve of something, he was still wary of encroaching too far. He didn't know where the lines were drawn or how to even find them. Best to just keep ignoring the groaning protests of his shelves and keep his books here for now.

"Dorian." Lavellan's sudden appearance and quiet voice startled him.

"Lavellan," he greeted, quickly standing from his spot on the musty floor. He had found a bit of space behind the legs of his chair to fit all his less than savory and sometimes downright naughtier tomes. "Lovely to see you here as always. Will you be long?"

The elf shook his head but kept his smile. "I'm afraid I have a meeting with Lady Montilyet soon. I have something else for you from Val Royeaux," he cheeks pinkened as he muttered, "I may have gotten distracted and forgot about it."

Breaking the bed in an Orlesian inn  _ was _ rather distracting. 

"Don't tell me you bought me socks to go with the gloves too. My heart can only take so much."

Lavellan laughed and drew a folded cloth from his pocket. "That's a good idea. Perhaps for a Wintersend gift, to you and my poor legs you rub your cold feet against every night."

"In my defense, you are unfairly warm." 

Lavellan hummed and unfolded the little square of cloth, a gold chain slipping from the silk, and Dorian's throat went tight. Sitting heavy in Lavellan's palm was the Pavus family birthright. Solid gold and inlaid with gemstones- it had been nearly a year since he'd seen it, but the heft of it was unmistakable.

"The Pavus birthright…," Dorian marveled, flooded with too many conflicting emotions to name. "But how… why?"

"Leliana pointed it my way," Lavellan replied with a shrug. "I remembered you explaining the significance… how you couldn't return without it. You needed it back."

Dorian felt a rush of fondness, thankfulness… but also the white-hot of embarrassed helplessness. This wasn't Lavellan's problem to solve.

"I was the one who lost it. I sold it," Dorian ground out. "I was desperate and I sold it and  _ I _ should have been the one to get it back." Lavellan shot him an unimpressed scowl. He continued rather than let him reply, "this is precisely what I didn't want. To be indebted to you, or anyone. And now I am."

This was not a potions belt or treat from the kitchen. This was not a set of gloves or Mabari figurine. This was his entire identity in Tevinter, this was something inherently priceless, this was something he couldn't possibly repay. He was fortunate it was Lavellan who bartered for it, as anyone else would hold it over him, but what could he possibly do in return?

This was too much.

Lavellan shouldn't have been the one to fix this.

"I didn't do it for you to be indebted to me," Lavellan huffed. "I did it because it's important to you, so it's important to me."

Of  _ course _ he did it for him- "That's precisely the problem." Dorian shook his head and dropped his voice. "A smart person would cozy up to you. The Inquisitor can open all manner of doors, he can pull strings, he can get you whatever you want." Dorian cut off Lavellan’s noise of protest. "They'll say I'm the magister who's using you."  _ And they'll be right _ .

Gift giving was like that. It was a back and forth of matching offers, an investment with expected returns. Dorian didn't know what to do with a grand gift with no strings. He hadn't wanted to use him, or have an obligation he couldn't possibly fulfill. 

"This is simply a gift, Dorian." Lavellan's disappointment added another whirl to his spiraling turmoil. "I have a meeting, we'll discuss this later, I suppose."

"Of course." Dorian stared down at the birthright, the weight oppressive in his hands. He couldn't bear to watch Lavellan leave. 

What a mess.

He'd need to fix this- Lavellan being upset, repayment for his birthright… Dorian headed straight to Varric. 

He'd been unsure at first, offering the dwarf such a candid glimpse into his relationship with the Inquisitor. But Varric would have found out the details eventually, and it would have done more harm in trying to hide away. Besides, his advice had been rather beneficial so far. Arguably, he wouldn't even have this problem if it weren't for him.

He found the dwarf at his usual table in the throne room, writing what looked to be an entire treatise. He flopped into one of the high-backed chairs with little ceremony and reached for the carafe of wine eagerly. Until remembering it was likely from Lavellan's stock. 

The noise he made was rather pitiful, but got Varric's attention. "Is this a social call or did you drink everything you've got stashed in your alcove already?"

Dorian frowned. "You make it sound as though I have some sort of drinking problem."

"We all have problems," Varric replied with a shrug. "But yours are a little more obvious."

"Lavellan and I had a spat." Dorian awkwardly fiddled with the leathers of his sleeve as Varric hummed. "He returned my birthright."

_ That _ got the dwarf to look up, "that's great!" Dorian shook his head with a huff and Varric faltered, "that's not great? How is this a bad thing? Tevinter nobles aren't nobles without their fancy necklaces. Smiles did you a favor."

"Exactly the problem! It was my mess, one I arguably hadn't made much headway on, but one that wasn't his mess to clean." Dorian slumped in his seat. "Now I owe a debt I cannot possibly repay."

"And you tried explaining this, Lavellan got confused, and now you're here."

Sullenly, he gave in to the temptation of Lavellan's fancy wine as Varric stared at him with a thoughtful look. The silence between them stretched in the noisy hall.

"I was… an ass about it, I'll admit," Dorian mumbled after a moment. "I just… he shouldn't let himself be used, even by me."

"Somehow, I don't think he thinks of it that way," Varric said, audibly amused at him. "The Dalish give out gifts like candy to people they like. Hawke had an entire chest full of crafts from the clan near Kirkwall."

"What am I supposed to do then? Gifts typically aren't given without expectations." Dorian frowned and amended, "in my experience."

Varric shot him a look that was both patient and a little exasperated, as only somone who had lived through the _Champion's Tale_ could appear. Dorian felt a little offended. "Alright, alright. Let's get you something a bit more fitting, buddy."

Dorian had to admit that watery, acidic, and utterly foul ale  _ did _ suit his mood better than Lavellan's fancier vintages.

"You know, shortly after I first met the guy he gave me a dagger made of dragonbone," Bull rumbled over his oversized flagon. "At first I thought it was a threat."

"And then?"

"Then I thought he was telling me I needed more knives." 

Dorian could see that. Gifts were just another way of sending a message- he just couldn't figure out the ones behind Lavellan's. It had befuddled him when it was a painted Mabari figurine, harmless and minor, had embarrassed him when it was honey cakes, a typical gift after a dalliance, and delighted him when it seemed like their messages matched. 

He just wished he knew what Lavellan wanted in return for this one.

"Safe to say, Smiles means everything he says and does," Varric prodded. "Outside of Diamondback."

But that would mean Lavellan truly didn't expect anything return. He just  _ did  _ it, like the gloves. He had to know the worth behind the birthright in his hands and decided…

"I'm an ass, aren't I," Dorian groaned.

Varric patted his shoulder, "yeah, you are. But you're Lavellan's ass." Bull grunted in agreement and called Cabot over for a refill.

"I know how you feel," the Qunari said. "Gifts can be a hard thing to wrap your head around when you're used to finding the meaning behind them."

Dorian hummed in agreement, the three falling into a companionable silence as Cabot washed his endless stream of mugs. Maryden tuned her lute strings and Lavellan's recent recruit, Sutherland, was loudly gushing from above. It was the quietest the Rest had ever been.

"I wonder when it will end," Dorian murmured into his ale. "This strange… disconnect between us. Surely, we'll run short of embarrassing cultural differences soon."

Varric and Bull shot each other twin glances of obvious uncertainty. Bull coughed into his fist. "Oh, yeah. Not too many more I bet."

"Hey, you two may be different in a pretty high number of ways," Varric encouraged (?). "But you are similar too. Things'll sort themselves out soon enough."

Dorian sighed into his ale as his companions wandered off. "What am I to do?" 

Cabot set his mug down and leaned over conspiratorialy. "You want some advice?" Dorian looked up and nodded. "Day-drinking is an unhealthy coping mechanism," Cabot advised. He then took Dorian's ale, shooed him away from the bar, and turned around to get started on the rest of his dirtied mugs.

Dorian supposed now was as good a time as any to apologize to Lavellan, as much as a part of him dreaded doing so. He'd never apologized so much before coming to the south- or ever been so candid with anyone. He was close to few people back home, as 'close' as one could be in such a cutthroat place, and in a way he missed keeping everyone several arms lengths away. He never had to have awkward heart to hearts with anyone, never had to fret over social etiquette, or endless cultural differences. 

But the relief and quiet joy such closeness brought was worth the occasional indignity… he supposed.

He still hesitated at the door of Lavellan's quarters. 

Lingering in the hallways would only prolong the inevitable though, so reluctantly he stepped through the unlocked door. He had been given a key, but it was used about as often as the lock, and it spent most of its time in his pocket.

Lavellan was at his desk, signing off on form after form, and didn't even glance up at his entrance. "Dorian," he greeted regardless.

"Caught you at a bad time?"

"Not at all." Lavellan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I've been at this long enough."

"I see." Dorian fidgeted awkwardly in the middle of the room. Time to get this over with… He took a deep breath and hesitantly began, "I am apparently an incredible ass about accepting presents. I'll stop before I say something syrupy, but…" Lavellan shot him a fondly exasperated smile. "I won't forget this and I will, find a way to repay you."

Lavellan's smile wilted into a confused frown. "I don't need repayment but I…" he faltered. "It's something you need. I don't understand it, but perhaps… repay me by continuing to try and reform Tevinter."

Using his birthright for good? He could do that. "I'll do my best," Dorian promised quietly.

Lavellan's smile returned. "Perhaps don't go selling it to seedy Orlesian merchants again either."

He laughed. "I can make no such promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian, upon receiving something of great value: this is no gift, this is an obligation I must fulfill!
> 
> Meanwhile, Lavellan, who gives gifts as regularly as a hobbit: no, those are socks
> 
> Anyway go read my ecology fic


	57. The Exalted Plains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wowow finally an update. I write like 75% of my stuff at work and it's been sooo busy.
> 
> Also Hades has kind of eaten my life.
> 
> Anyway it's DALISH TIME!
> 
> Feat: The squad of complex emotions regarding elves.
> 
> Cw: animal injury, corpses, and the usual talk aimed at the Dalish

There were a great many words Dorian could use to describe the Exalted Plains. 

Flat and depressing were the first to come to mind.

The Orlesian civil war had slowed to a stall however, and the Inquisition needed to capitalize on the pause in fighting to assess the spread of Corypheus' influence. At least that was the idea. Instead they were met by a harried Scout Harding as they approached the Path of Flame campsite with bad news involving deserters, demons, and undead. In the distance, Inquisition soldiers held back a group of Freemen. The stench of rotten death carried thickly across the field.

Sera gagged loudly.

Harding finished her exposition quickly, handed Lavellan a small folded map, and seemed to remember something. "I had nearly forgotten. Scouts say they spotted a Dalish encampment on the plains." 

"There are Dalish here?" Lavellan perked up immediately. "I'll keep an eye out. Thank you." Harding nodded and scurried off with a wave.

"Oh good," Sera grumbled. "Elfy elves."

"She didn't have a location, but perhaps we'll find signs further in," Lavellan mused, unfolding the map. "For now let's check in at these ramparts nearby, see if we can stem the undead and give our men a break."

"Waves of undead are certainly one way to bring about a truce." Dorian wrinkled his nose as something particularly pungent wafted his way.

He couldn't wait to be done with this place.

The western ramparts were just up the path- and held by a single Orlesian peasant who was having a terrible time. Demons prowled the walkways and undead rose from piles of corpses left to rot in trenches. Loyally, he defended the entry to the ramparts with a few loudly muttered curses and prayers. He looked ready to faint from gratitude at the sight of the Inquisitor cleaving a path to him. Either that or it was from sheer exhaustion. 

While Lavellan busied himself with listening to the singular peasant's woes, Dorian wandered further into the ramparts, Solas at his heels. The aura surrounding this place was utterly intriguing, the Veil so incredibly thin that wisps readily popped in and out of his peripherals. There were a great many spirits flocking to the edges and grasping at discarded bodies, calling and whispering at his ear. Too many to truly be natural. 

"Something is at work within these walls," Solas said cryptically.

"The Veil is buggy here," Sera said seriously, swatting away a large buzzing beetle that got too close.

"The man back there mentioned something about blue fire. He suspects the Freemen are responsible, but isn't sure how-" Lavellan gingerly sidestepped a corpse as he talked, only to yelp as it grabbed his ankle. It was Sera who dispatched the wretched thing with a single arrow before anyone else could move. 

"Things are off to a great start," Dorian observed, watching Lavellan desperately try to dislodge the hand now holding him with the rigid grip of the truly dead with little success. "Tell me again why we are here?"

"Dead things should  _ stay dead _ ," Sera warned the remaining corpses just in case they had any more bright ideas.

"I don't know, but as soon as we find whatever is causing this, the sooner we can leave. Everyone, keep an eye out for anything suspicious." 

"Something like that, perhaps?" Dorian pointed towards a glowing blue swirl rising from deeper within the rampart trenches. A tall shape loomed over it, barely visible over the wooden barricade. 

"Oh," Lavellan said. "Yeah, that's very suspicious looking."

Dorian was right, in that the suspicious looking thing in the distance was in fact very suspicious, however it was also an Arcane Horror, watching over a mass grave and eagerly reanimating the corpses within. Such demons were rare, something from a scary night story to tell little mages so they behaved, and had rarely been seen for years. Somehow this was the second one the Inquisition had run across in the span of a few weeks. He supposed this was just another one of those strange happenstances that always seemed to befall Lavellan. 

He truly was a magnet for such things.

With the Arcane Horror dispatched one of the great many problems befalling the hapless plains was solved. After a quick and quiet decision of who had the job of burning all the bodies left in the corpse pit, a second problem was solved. Which left the third and last issue regarding this particular spot. 

"I'm not putting my mouth on that thing," Lavellan declared, staring at the semi-erect horn in the midst of the ramparts.

Sera cackled madly as the peasant pleaded. "But how else will they know it is safe to come back?"

"I don't care. Find some other way to alert your men. Perhaps  _ you _ can blow it."

The peasant blanched, "oh no- I could never presume-"

"There is a hand dangling from that thing." He gestured pointedly to the dessicated hand loosely draped over the top of the horn. "I'm not blowing it."

Sera's laughter grew louder and Solas sighed heavily. "This is the tools 'conversation' all over again," Dorian muttered. "Please choose a different word."

The peasant spluttered and blushed. "Presume your heart out. You can blow the horn. In the meantime," Lavellan turned and waved, "we'll be on our way."

"Sure there's nothing you wanna blow here, Inqy?" Sera waggled her eyebrows as Solas sighed with greater vehemence. His soul was likely to be expelled at this rate.

"There is, but perhaps when we are surrounded by less corpses." Lavellan wrinkled his nose and added, "and Orlesians."

Sera cackled and clapped before nudging Dorian, and stage whispering, "you and the Inquisitor, yeah? What's that like? Jousting?"

"Fewer horses, marginally. More cheering, definitely." 

"Oh, there's certainly cheering." Solas groaned irritably as Lavellan brightened and veered off the path to inspect a tree. "A trail sign."

"Are those good signs or not good signs?"

Lavellan ran his fingers over the nondescript gauges in the bark. If he hadn't pointed them out so literally, Dorian would have missed the little notches entirely. 

"There's a hunting party nearby." He frowned and shrugged. "Or they spotted a herd of goats to the south. Sometimes it gets a little lost in translation. Either way the Dalish encampment must be nearby."

The actual encampment may not have been nearby, but a group of Dalish were. After nearly half an hour of hiking around prickly brush and stone towers, a wood and cloth shape poked out from amongst the scenery. A singular Aravel- so Dorian assumed- sat tucked away, a few Halla grazing around it. Several elves talked in low voices, bows loose in hand and eyes tracking their approach. 

Their wary countenance fell upon spotting Lavellan, who greeted them warmly. "On dhea'him. It's good to see others of the People."

The Dalish glanced over to Lavellan's companions and chuckled knowingly. A city elf, a Tevinter mage, and whatever Solas was- what a sight they made. "I imagine so. You must be the Inquisitor. Here to solve the shem war?"

"It seems solved enough by all the undead walking about. Is your clan in any danger?"

"Just from the usual. The dead prefer to attack the humans, understandable really, and leave us well enough alone. Strange but welcome."

Lavellan hummed thoughtfully. "That is strange." 

A few of the Halla had taken to inspecting the Inquisitor and his guests, nudging their velvety snouts into hands and bags. Dorian had never interacted with a Halla- or many animals before coming south. There were cats, the small inbred hounds and fat Mabari of the rich, the usual horses, and the single mule he had shared a stable with after a night of drinking. Now he could add semi-domesticated Dalish Halla to the short but ever growing list. The soulful doe eyes tugged at his heart and its skin was terrifyingly soft and delicate under his hands. All in all it was an incredibly pleasant experience. Sera irritably pushed the one nosing at her away while Solas remained unaffected by their presence, but Lavellan laughed and murmured sweet things to the Halla flocking around him. Slipping a hand into his potions pouch, he handed out Embrium leaves and gentle pats while he chatted away with the other Dalish. 

His accent slipped out the more he spoke, heavier than the other elves and nearly unintelligible except to the other Dalish. It was fascinating to listen to, although impossible to decipher despite his best efforts. Eventually they pointed the party towards the southwest, further into the rockier areas and past the river, trusting Lavellan to deliver a message to their Keeper. Lavellan bid them farewell and dutifully headed off, companions in tow. Gradually the red tips of more Aravels poked out from a secluded spot along a river bend. 

Tevinter has many stories about the Dalish- the wild, primitive, violent barbarian elves that give the Imperium a wide berth. He assumed most were untrue before ever even meeting Lavellan. It was still almost amusing seeing for himself just how outlandish the tales really were compared to the real thing. The Dalish encampment was a loose ring of Aravels set against a lush backdrop and reminded him of the fancy away camps the wealthy would go to when they craved a spot of nature. All in all, there was a disappointing lack of whispering trees.

Dorian didn't dare follow Lavellan into the camp, instead standing off to the side.

"The Dalish remember fragments of fragments," Solas observed. "But that is more than most." He still looked… disappointed while taking in the rustic little homestead the elves had carved out and instead moved away to wander.

"Yay, more elfy elves," Sera grumbled, also not daring to venture into the camp. "Going to tell us how to elf properly."

"What a strange situation. Being here with two elves who so dislike other elves," Dorian mused. "These Dalish will have a tough time doing what Lavellan couldn't and convert you two."

"Inqy's different than those other ones," Sera defended. "Stuffy, lot like Baldy over there only sadder like his Mabari's been kicked, but he leaves it well enough alone."

"He does certainly keep his calls to elvish glory out of the bedroom." 

Dorian watched as Lavellan spoke to who he assumed was the Keeper judging by the staff. Or could it be a First? Those were also mages. He didn't quite grasp the significance of either. He certainly looked at home chatting with people like him. It was an uncomfortable reminder of just how few Dalish elves were in the Inquisition- the singular mage/archer in the Chargers, and the one or two in service to the Nightingale. The remaining elves were all from the cities, barring Solas of course.

Dorian held scant little love for most of his countrymen, but those he did hold in regard he missed fiercely. He didn't seem to have the innate ties Lavellan had with his fellows. Even while clearly wary of him, the Dalish clan was welcoming, offering him food and drinks and conversation. Like everyone else, they set their concerns and requests at his feet, hopeful and just shy of expectant, but also curious and carefully concerned for his own needs. It made him somewhat jealous to see such easy camaraderie.

How lonely Lavellan must be, to be so distant and cut-off from everyone else like him all the time.

After making a few rounds to speak to everyone in the little camp, Lavellan sheepishly turned back to his neglected companions. "I'd like to spend some time to help them."

There were multiple other forts and ramparts to check in on, a wyvern to kill, a spirit to find, and a dozen other pressing matters. Dorian, like Sera and Solas, was ready to argue but- "alright. We can stay here a bit longer," he said loudly.

Lavellan’s thankful look left a happy flutter in his chest and Dorian smiled as he watched the elf wander off. Solas and Sera shot him differing looks, but the underlying message was the same. 

"I do not think we have the time nor the resources to spare here," Solas said slowly. 

"This place is ripe. Now we'll have to  _ camp _ ," Sera griped. "He's got you melted."

Dorian huffed, "hardly! He's always off doing things like this. Usually it's just with humans."

He tried not to think about how this was the first time Lavellan had asked permission to do such a thing.

Sera and Solas mercifully dropped the topic at least, and they all dutifully hiked after Lavellan as he headed off towards what appeared to be some sort of ancient burial ground full of demons. It was quite majestic from afar, with a sad sort of lost grandeur amongst the multitude of tombs, cairns, and mummified remains. Lavellan had laughed when he had mentioned some of the tales Tevinter had of ancient elvhen curses, but they still readily came to mind in the eerily still gravesite. He still gave everything a wide berth.

Dorian shuddered as a strange rippling howl echoed across the gravesite. Sera yelped and Solas chuckled at her. "Have you ever thought about taking a vacation?"

Lavellan frowned at that- or at the skull encrusted urn he was righting. "Not really. They sound… unpleasant."

Dorian stared. Hesitantly he asked, "have you never been on one?" Lavellan shook his head. "Do you… know what they are?"

"Sera and Bull told me they were what you do when you want to go somewhere for fun and I asked Varric too. It's what you do when you don't want people looking for you? You tell them you are on vacation and then you disappear," Lavellan explained seriously. "You have to wear a disguise and hide your name and face and you can't do anything, lest you get found out."

Did that dwarf seriously describe his  _ escape from a burning Kirkwall _ as a  _ vacation _ ?

"That's… that's not…" but Lavellan was distracted by something beyond the graves.

His ears twitched as he squinted. "Are those Freemen? They certainly sound it."

"What're they up to?" Sera asked.

"If I had to guess," Solas replied, also watching the humans pass by, "they are likely looking into the ruins left by the elves."

"The ancients left a great many artifacts behind. I'd rather none of them make their way into modern hands," Lavellan said. "Let's see what they found."

The Freemen led them to a strange little shrine tucked under the stone cliffs, filled with various plants, effigies, and the lonely remains of some long gone elf, judging by the faded garments. Lavellan had built her a cairn as the rest of them investigated the small space. The Freemen had apparently been researching a few spots of interest across the Plains, judging from the letters they left strewn about. Something about one of the elvhen gods and a secret treasure. Whoever was writing the messages had atrocious spelling.

"Dirthamen," Lavellan said looking up from the bundle of herbs he was burning at the feet of a terrifying statue. "One of the twin gods. They are looking for a temple to him, and I'd wager those glyphs are the key to the location."

Dorian looked back at the glowing shape of a hare and some kind of bird thoughtfully. "They must be hoping to find something quite powerful if they are willing to play at being Lords of Fortune."

"He's our god of secrets, so chances are whatever it is will be…," Lavellan trailed off with a wave.

"Secretive?" Sera supplied and then sneezed. 

"Unpleasant," he finished.

"The stories the Dalish tell of the twin gods are far more lighthearted than the truth. I presume the two are sacred to you, just as much as Sylaise is, Inquisitor?"

Lavellan hummed, murmuring an "I think so" rather distractedly. 

He stared at the glowing glyph absently, puzzling something or another out as the smoke of his burnt offering curled around his fingers. Dorian had never asked much about Lavellan's religion, his culture, or his People. Perhaps, that could be amended.

Then he might understand a few more of the cogs that whirred away in Lavellan's head.

"This is nice and all, but can we take this outdoors?" Sera griped,waving away the pungent smoke. " _ Away _ from the creepy statue?"

"It's hardly the most terrifying statue we've run across." Dorian had seen enough Avaar statues to last a lifetime.

"If I could have things my way, I'd have my own shrine to Sylaise nestled in the herb garden," Lavellan huffed. "Unfortunately, the Chantryfolk would likely take offense." He shook his head irritably. "This is the first time I've been able to offer rites in over a year and I have to do it in a forgotten cave."

"The Inquisition is an Andrastian institution. I do not think they planned on an Inquisitor being anything but."

"If only there could be a compromise. I get a few tiny shrines and they can get their seventh statue of Andraste. Hawke mentioned one he found at an Emporium that I'm sure they'd love." Lavellan whispered a few more elvhen words before straightening. "Now to find that Halla."

Finding a golden Halla on the Plains felt like the living embodiment of that old Laetan adage about finding the reddest red bunting in a cherry tree. Dorian would never tell Lavellan this, but he could not tell the Halla apart. They all looked the exact same shade of glowing creamy-white with their twining glass antlers that reflected light like coronas. They all looked a little golden in the hazy light and when compared to the muted landscape of the 'Dirth'. 

And supposedly there was a true golden Halla out here running about. He didn't understand the significance, but it seemed incredibly important to Lavellan that they find it and take it to the Dalish. It certainly involved a lot of hiking about though.

It seemed like luck when they stumbled across a set of Freemen discussing said Halla. They had apparently tried capturing it and succeeded in wounding it, but it slipped away before it could be butchered. Lavellan killed them quickly after he'd heard enough, scouring the ground until he found the trail of red the humans had been following.

"Hopefully we aren't too late," he muttered worriedly. "There's worse things than Freemen walking these plains."

In the distance a pack of wolves howled, seemingly in agreement. 

The golden Halla hadn't made it too far from the Freemen hunters, and Lavellan pinpointed it's sad noises from a short distance away. They found it curled pitifully in a small hollow amongst the rocks, staring up at their approach with the weary resignation of the wounded. A long gash ran along it's flank and dribbled steadily onto the lichens below. 

All but Lavellan gave the beast a wide berth as he softly stepped closer. "Oh, da'Halla, such a wound they've given you. May I tend to it?"

What a strange thing to ask a creature incapable of speech. Or so Dorian thought. The Halla dipped it's head and let Lavellan inspect the jagged slice without a fuss, nibbling half heartedly at the Embrium leaves he set out. There were stories about the wary and wilful nature of Halla, how they could not be domesticated, let alone touched by anyone but their Dalish tenders. Either this one was past the point of pride or Lavellan had some secret way with the creatures.

Dorian just hoped he wouldn't be asked to heal it. He'd never tried to heal an animal before and had no idea how to go about it, though he supposed it couldn't be too far off from healing a person. 

Lavellan didn't give him too much time to ponder hypotheticals before murmuring another question to the Halla, getting another dip before gently scooping the fully grown Halla into his arms, mindful of the weeping gash staunched with ground elfroot leaves. 

"Let's head back to the encampment. Keeper Hawren will be able to do the rest," Lavellan said around the quite large Halla tucked against his chest. It craned it's neck to rest it's head on his shoulder, quietly snorting with a surprisingly audible amount of indignation. Lavellan chuckled, "and before anymore Orlesians come by."

"Right, yes. Whatever the gold deer wants," Sera groused. "It's sense somewhere."

"Halla," Lavellan corrected absently.

They were at least, somehow, close to the the Dalish encampment, popping around from a different side. Like the last time, they stayed just outside of the camp while Lavellan delivered the golden Halla, news, and various trinkets he pulled from dead Freemen. The deserter group seemed to have just decided all elvhen artifacts were either worth the weight in coin, held some kind of power, or both. They were probably not wrong. 

Dorian watched Lavellan get thanked profusely with a sort of second-hand feeling of pride. He'd helped kill quite a few of the bastards, after all. Eventually, the Keeper pressed a parcel of something into Lavellan's hands, thanking him again. Lavellan peeked at the contents, blanched, and immediately spluttered and tried to give it back. Dorian could practically  _ hear _ his far too modest 'I couldn't possibly' from several yards away. 

"Whatcha suppose they gave him?" Sera whispered curiously.

"I'm not sure. He's being awfully noble about it though."

The Keeper, Dorian finally decided, simply laughed and pressed the sachet a little more insistently into his hands. Finally cowed enough to accept, Lavellan thanked the Keeper with flushed cheeks and bid his farewells. He was still staring awestruck at the little pouch when he wordlessly returned to his companions.

"They must have given you something quite spectacular to render you speechless," Dorian said, curious of the Dalish gift.

"Haurasha'miol. They must have worked hard to make them for me." Dorian recognized the word, used awhile back after a few shared honeyed dates. Such a plant was not found this far south. "They are a rare treat, usually shared during a celebration."

"Hor-ashama-what?" 

Lavellan smiled happily, "honey roasted grubs-"

Sera gagged loudly, "they gave you bugs? To eat? You're serious?"

Dorian silently shared the sentiment and judging from the look of disgust on Solas' face, he did too. Insects, no matter if they were slathered in the finest of honeys and spices, were still insects- and the  _ larvae _ of them no less…

Lavellan's smile waned, his crestfallen shoulders straightening as he hid his disappointment behind an unreadable face. It physically hurt to see.

"Nevermind. There's a camp nearby. Let's head to it before it starts getting dark," he said, a tired note catching his words. 

Solas and Sera amiably began hiking off in the vague direction, Lavellan taking one last look at the Dalish encampment before following suite. Leaving Dorian torn.

Lavellan had looked so happy. Now there was just a melancholic loneliness under all the quiet blankness, easier to see now that he'd had a bit more experience in reading Lavellan's moods and body. It was enough to have him reach out and tap Lavellan's arm, hesitant but still determined.

"Those ah," he couldn't bring himself to say 'grub' and wasn't going to attempt elvhen so he settled on "treats. Of yours. May I try one?"

Lavellan raised a fiery red eyebrow at him. "Really, there's no need to force yourself."

"It's a good thing I'm not forcing myself then. I'm doing this entirely of my own volition." For better or for worse.

Unconvinced, Lavellan seemed to scrutinize him for a long few moments, as if finding all the chinks in his resolve and delibrating on whether to capitalize on them. After a long, quiet moment, he unfortunately decided against trying to talk him out of… what he was about to do, and wordlessly offered the cloth parcel.

At first glance the grubs looked innocuous, like the shriveled red fruit skins used in Wintersend puddings only shiny with a golden brown coating. They smelled strongly of sugary honey, cinnamon bark, and clove buds. It was incredibly enticing.

Gingerly, Dorian plucked one from the bunch and hesitated. Did he eat it whole? Or perhaps piecemeal, just in case it tasted bad- Lavellan, seemingly unable to resist, began popping them into his mouth like candy, humming happily with each one and Dorian supposed whole it was.

The spices were strong, but as he chewed the flavor of the insect came through and "oh.

These taste exactly like honeyed dates"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan, munching on candied bugs like popcorn: "good right?"  
> Dorian: "the honeyed dates from Tevinter can never compare. You've ruined me. I'll never forgive this injustice. Can I have another"
> 
> Next up: things get saucy because it's been awhile and they deserve a break


	58. Lost (nsfw)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This took 87 years and 6856 rewrites
> 
> Cw: ptsd (dissociation, flashbacks, panic attacks) as well as nsfw teasing and groping (lemme know if I missed anything)

Lavellan was exhausted. Between the endless meetings with his advisors together, each advisor separately, the multitude of ambassadors, nobles, arls, Grand Enchanters, and scouts… He'd barely had any time for himself for the past few days. The peace talks at Halamshiral were in less than a month and he was anxious to get it over with and return to something moderately less stressful. Like fighting ancient darkspawn magisters bent on the destruction of the world. It seemed a far more important issue than some masquerade ball, but given the collective stress of the Inquisition, most notably Lady Montilyet, he was no longer certain. 

She had bumped up the number of lessons in etiquette, history, politics, and speech for him until it ate through his daytime and wormed into his already strange dreams. He'd never spoken in riddles or held such long spoons before, but if it's what would endear him to a court of humans he would gladly do his best. His fingers still ached from having to hold delicate eating utensils just so, and his head ached from trying to keep all the names and places straight. He almost wished for an attack from Corypheus as a respite.

Lavellan tiredly trudged up the multitude of stairs up to his quarters, eager for some peace and quiet. He was thankfully met by both. His hearth was burning low, a few soft candlelamps glowing in the corners. The balcony doors were closed to the evening sun, and the room was pleasantly warm. Sprawled on the bed was Dorian, engrossed in a book with an unreadable cover. 

He hadn't shared a space with anyone like this, had never had a space like it, but he found that Dorian fit rather nicely into it. He certainly wouldn't mind seeing him here like this more often. If only he knew how to ask. Not bothering with a greeting, he made his way to the bed, shedding a few layers as he went, until it was simply him, his leggings, and a fully dressed human. Dorian barely reacted as the mattress dipped and Lavellan settled beside his crossed legs.

That was fine though, as he wasn't inclined to do much speaking quite yet. For now he simply wished to relax and indulge in something comforting. Which would also hopefully involve Dorian wearing less clothing.

"Your meetings went long today," Dorian said in way of a greeting. 

Lavellan hummed, trailing his fingers over the leather and fustian velvet on his legs, contemplating which clasps he'd need to work through first. Dorian's outfits always made for an intriguing puzzle box with their many straps and buckles, and the prize was always well worth the effort.

"Everyone is always asking things of me," he eventually replied. "You know how it goes." 

Although it was more of 'demanding and then being upset when refused, or when asked for reciprocation'. He never did ask for much, but when he did suddenly everyone's charity ran dry. Yet somehow he was still expected to have deep pockets and endless resources to spare. His fingers caught on the seams of Dorian's trousers, thumbs tracing the grooves of the intricate wrought snakes that made up the buckles and pins. Perhaps tomorrow he could hide away somewhere and breathe, but that would likely just cause more problems. He learned that the hard way early on back in Haven.

"You poor thing. You've made yourself indispensable." Dorian turned a page. "Perhaps you could start being the one to ask for things, just for a change of pace."

He could certainly make an attempt at being more demanding. Lavellan hummed, "what would I ask for?"

Most of what he wanted lay far out of anyone's reach. Safety for his clan, his people, his friends, an easy solution to the politics, the wars, the constant problems, a bit of rest, an end to the burn in his hand and the ache in his bones. All of it unattainable, except for  _ one _ thing he supposed.

"I'm sure you'll think of something. World peace, ending hunger-"

"Can I take off your clothes?" Lavellan blurted. It wasn't his finest moment, or the most noble request, but he wasn't taking it back.

Dorian shot him a bemused look over the top of his book, but shrugged and uncrossed his legs, making a vague ' _ go on then _ ' gesture with one hand. 

Eagerly Lavellan shifted to sit between Dorian's long legs and set about working on the buckles and clasps, trailing and rubbing his fingers along leather and velvet as he did. Dorian was a fantastic distraction, and it was easy to lose himself in touching and cataloging each twitch and hum and shift as he worked on divesting the man's lower half of its clothing. Dorian let out a breathy curse as Lavellan's hands slid along his inner thighs, wiggled as he hiked one leg up over his shoulder to fiddle with the trickier hidden clasps, and gasped when he mouthed around the bunched smalls covering his cock as soon as he could.

"Kaffas," Dorian swore again, louder and with his fingers threading into Lavellan's hair, pressing gently but insistently to keep him in place. "You are making it quite difficult to read."

"Is that so bad?" Lavellan took Dorian's hand and began pressing kisses along the wrist and palm, slipping the staff-calloused thumb between his lips as Dorian sucked in a breath. "Would you like for me to stop?"

Slowly, too slowly, but steadily he had begun to learn what caught Dorian's attention and what kept it. Dorian hadn't been reading his book ever since giving Lavellan permission, hadn't even been  _ looking _ at his book. Lavellan had dutifully pretended not to notice. But Dorian didn't ask for things, especially in bed. He would offer, suggest, present things as questions and hope for an answer that he liked. It was up to Lavellan to read between the lines and figure out what Dorian actually meant, what he didn't want, and what he did.

Someday he'd get Dorian to be upfront with him but until that day...

Dorian huffed. "No no," he replied a bit too quickly to be nonchalant. "I'm quite adept at multitasking so feel free to continue. Or perhaps, you've something more in mind?" 

"A few things," Lavellan replied, "if you'd be interested."

"I'm always interested." Dorian waggled his eyebrows, book completely forgotten to the side. His fingers carded through Lavellan's hair eagerly, catching on the strands and pulling a hum from his throat. 

He may be in love with the man's hands. 

Moderately distracted by the fingers against his scalp, Lavellan dipped back between Dorian's legs and kept up the slow divestment of clothing- much to the man's impatient squirming. Dorian tended to like making things quick, but Lavellan wasn't in a rushing mood just yet. He simply wanted to relish the taste and feel and comfort of someone else, just for a moment.

Dorian's skin was heady with the scent of the spiced perfumes and soaps he used, tinged salty from sweat, and Lavellan kissed and nipped each revealed patch. The jut of his hipbone, the join of his thighs, the swelling curve of muscle, the curl of hair, and his straining arousal- all were given his attention in equal measure until Dorian's lower half was completely bare and the man was breathing blasphemes.

Next would be that connecting jacket… thing and its myriad of straps and buckles. Tevinter fashion was so unnecessarily convoluted, it was a miracle anyone could actually take anything off and on. Though he was getting plenty of practice with the former. Lavellan settled atop Dorian's lap, ignoring his indignant huff and the alluring press against the cleft of his ass, and set to work. The clasps and buckles easily gave way under his fingers and Lavellan hummed happily with each success, breathing in the faint scent of spice and ozone, left behind from the Anchor and Dorian's magic.

Maybe that was the catalyst, or maybe it was the way Dorian's finger trailed across the thick scar at his hip, the small crescent of his fingernail just barely felt that had his world suddenly  _ shifting _ -

The cold against his skin was overwhelming and it was all he could feel other than a dull unplaceable pain. His skin tingled where it had been touched, too sensitive, too numb, pins and needles pressing against his nerves, or Fearlings crawling under his flesh. The world was painted the wrong color, too empty, too much, and he couldn't  _ see.  _ Cold fingers touched his face and his vision blurred with tears, the rasp of  _ are you lost, pretty thing _ echoing in his ears and he couldn't- he had escaped twice, why was he back?

The ozone smell of the Fade choked his lungs, and Dorian- was it Dorian? Or had the Desire demon returned? Had he ever left- or had the Nightmare gotten bored with toying with his body and memories and given him something new to lose? He couldn't tell and it had him frozen, shaking,  _ terrified _ even when the cold hands on his cheeks slid around to his neck and shoulders, to guide him down, pressing him against…

Something very warm. 

It was jarring, unexpected, and had him pausing. The hand cradling his head and neck wasn't the cold clammy claw of the Horror, the rush of static and whispers was really soft humming, the scent of ozone was hardly even a footnote. Instead it was-

"I'm sorry," Lavellan croaked, his throat still tight from the lingering air of the Fade.

"There you are," Dorian murmured. His thumbs rubbed soothing circles in the short fuzz behind Lavellan's ears, flushing with heated shame and  _ guilt _ .

"I'm sorry," Lavellan repeated, because he  _ was _ . "I don't- you aren't like… there wasn't anything similar, so I don't know why," he babbled, face pressed into Dorian's chest. He wondered if he could go curl up and die now, but Dorian seemed disinclined to let him move very far. 

He hadn't had too many…  _ moments _ , like these lately. Not since the beginning, during the quieter times when he had been left to his own devices. Now to have one while with Dorian and- he felt sick. Dirty.

"You've nothing to apologize for," Dorian replied breezily. 

In a way it made Lavellan feel worse.

"I've ruined the evening," Lavellan mumbled. The shame and guilt were pulling away slowly, and with it went his energy to do anything. "I've murdered the mood in cold blood."

"Nothing is ruined," Dorian countered, maneuvering Lavellan to lay against his side, head propped on his shoulder instead of squished between his pectorals. "And there will be plenty more opportunities for us to indulge, especially with your knack for finding secluded hallways."

Lavellan wasn't so sure, but he kept silent as he tiredly curled up closer against Dorian's side, Anchor tucked away and right hand resting above the steady thump of the man's heart. He'd probably scared him, freezing up like that. He'd need to find a way to make it up to him. Dorian's hand wound its way back into his hair as the man contorted enough to press a loud smacking kiss against the top of his head.

"How about we pick things back up in the morning," he suggested, no doubt with an eyebrow waggle. "We can make you properly late to all your very important meetings."

"Lady Montilyet would have me taxidermied," Lavellan mused. "She was planning on going over napkin etiquette again. It's essential to Orlesian culture."

"It  _ would _ be very embarrassing if you accidentally started a war by folding your napkin into the wrong shape."

"The Inquisition would never recover from such a scandal." Lavellan slid his fingers lazily along Dorian's chest, too absent to be teasing. "We can use the fancy oils if you'd like."

"The kind that smells of rose petals? How lavish," he chuckled. "I can't wait to be walked in on by Cullen for a second time."

"He's awfully unfortunate in that way." Lavellan yawned as the last dregs of his unnecessary adrenaline slipped away. 

Dorian went back to his book, humming that same unrecognizable tune as before, his fingers leaving Lavellan's hair only to turn to the next page. Today was a bit of a bust, but the promise of what tomorrow would bring had him relaxing, almost eager as he eventually slipped into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I caught all the errors. My docs was spazzing out so hard while writing this...
> 
> Poor Lavellan


	59. Lunar Holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy one year anniversary to this fic!
> 
> It's party time
> 
> CW: alcohol
> 
> I'm playin' real loose and fast with elvhen culture here

Dorian's back twinged angrily.

It was the fourth time in half as many hours- he supposed- and likely a good sign that he needed to get up and move a little. That and the fact that the sky had gone dark and the Rotunda still and quiet. Unsurprising, as it looked to be long since after midnight, but also odd due to the lack of agents wandering about. There were always messages to be delivered to the sleepless Spymaster above, but her Rookery was silent for once.

Curious, but not enough to investigate, Dorian set his work aside and stretched, noting the absence of Solas as well. 

Wandering out into the Great Hall, he was met by more silence and empty space. Not too horribly unusual for this time of night, but Varric typically kept the same late hours he did and was currently not at his spot. Which likely meant he'd be at the Herald's Rest, Dorian's next stop before sneaking into Lavellan's bed later. Stepping out into the chilly upper courtyard, Dorian made his way down the stairs, his ears catching the tail end of music.

Perhaps from the tavern?

Solas stood not far from the base of the staircase, looking up into the starry sky. He didn't bother glancing away as he spoke, "I had assumed you joined the Inquisitor and his revels."

"Is he reveling right now?" Dorian had no idea. 

"He is. Quite loudly." Solas sighed. "It's at least a nice night for a walk."

Whatever revelry Lavellan was up to didn't sound particularly loud, or was just muffled from the sturdy tavern walls, but Dorian's interest was piqued regardless. Unfortunately, whatever mysterious party Lavellan was having was not being held in the Herald's Rest. There was not much of anything going on inside the Rest, in fact. 

Disappointed, he headed to the empty bar and took a seat next to Sera as she kicked the rungs of her stool.

"Not having it off with your man, huh? He was lookin' for you," she grumbled, leaning over and helping herself to whatever was behind the bar.

"Was he?" He must have missed him during his last break many hours ago. "You wouldn't happen to know where he went, do you?"

Irritably, she blew out her cheeks. "He's off having an elf party with all the other elves. Fun seeing the faces of those robes and nobles when they couldn't stand around the gardens, less fun to hear the why." She sighed and grumbled, "stupid elf party."

"Sera," Dorian began haltingly, "you… know  _ you  _ are an elf as well? You could also attend the elf party."

"Oh sod off!"

Sod off Dorian did, seeing as there was little to do in the Rest and a partying Inquisitor to find. If it was truly an elf party he wouldn't linger, seeing as he was very much a human- rude as it might be to intrude in the first place. Maker, if he accidentally caused yet  _ another _ awkward cultural blunder…

But the number of reasons to go investigate greatly outmatched his hesitancy, so into the garden he went, only to freeze in the entryway. 

The night sky was blotted out by a haphazard, trailing canopy of Arbor Blessing interspersed with little strung balls of magelights. Wisps flitted around them like moths and the scent was heady and fresh like a dewey forest. A great bonfire was lit closer to the gazebo and around it, elves danced and cheered and clapped. A little band sat to the side, playing jaunty and lively songs on flutes, lyres, drums, and a strange instrument he'd never seen before, the strings of which were plucked as a crank was steadily turned. Chains of flowers spun from around necks and wrists as dancers twirled and flipped and laughed.

Tables laden with food graced the borders of the garden and great casks were tapped, the smell of pungent alcohol and aromatic spices helpfully reminding Dorian that it had been a bit since he ate. Roasted vegetables and slices of meats on skewers, cakes and treats, fruits- the spread was astounding. More so than that- elves were  _ everywhere- _ more than he thought were in the Inquisition in the first place, and not a one was serving food or drink. Instead, Dalish and a few Circle elves conjured magelights, little butterflies of pure Fade, and sparkling fountains of light. Spies and maids were competing at the tables and on the dance floor. It was wild, carefree, and unlike any party he'd ever seen.

"I was wondering when you'd show up." Varric's voice, drowned out by the din as it was, still startled him. Cup in one hand and pen in the other, he looked like a casual observer if not for the crown of flowers and leaves in his hair. "Welcome to the party, just don't ask me to pronounce the name."

"I thought this was an elf party?"

"Sort of. Lavellan assured me it was more seasonal than cultural. Everyone's free to attend."

Now that the initial shock of it wore off, he could see Dagna and Gatsi amongst the dancers, Cabot watching over the alcohol, Bull and some of his Chargers peppered throughout, and a few more adventurous humans mingling with the crowd. He was hardly the only trespasser here and it had him relaxing a bit. 

Even more when his hand was suddenly grabbed by a wobbly Lavellan, who slurred brightly, "ma'vhenan, you're here."

"Hey Smiles, did you win that pumpkin eating contest?"

Lavellan nodded, belched politely behind his hand, and frowned unhappily. "I was accused of cheating." Insult forgotten as quick as it came, he turned back to Dorian with a grin. "You're finally here."

"I sure am," Dorian replied, holding back his laughter. Lavellan was thoroughly inebriated, swaying where he stood and skin flushed rosy pink, smelling strongly of spice and pungent alcohol. A crown of blue featherfew and crystal grace sat nestled in his fiery hair, tilted to the side. It was rare seeing him like this, relaxed and unguarded and extremely tipsy. "How much wine have you drunk?"

Lavellan tutted, "moonwhiskey, not wine. To celebrate-"

Great pains had been taken by the Inquisition to temper Lavellan's heavy dulcet Dalish accent into something palatable, the song-like cadence of it only appearing if his mind was occupied or while he was amongst his fellows. Lately, it had begun twinning through his words more often, not just when they were alone. Dorian had gotten better at deciphering the way the words tilted and flowed.

He was, however, completely unable to make heads or tails of whatever elvhen holiday Lavellan just announced.

Varric shrugged uselessly behind him.

"Of course," Dorian replied without missing a beat. "You'll have to tell me the story behind this one."

"Over a drink," Lavellan agreed, tugging him towards the imposing kegs. 

Cabot looked up at their approach, wordlessly handing over two cups of oddly dark drink, the color of burnt caramel. Lavellan gave a cheery and slurred elvish thank you before downing the mug in one go. Cabot shook his head. "I'd go easy on the stuff if I were you. It's made for elves," he warned Dorian quietly.

It seemed innocuous enough, smelling fruity and spicy like a mulled cider, but the burn of it touching his tongue had him spluttering and coughing. 

"Maker's cock, what in Thedas-" he gasped, wiping at his eyes. "Is this poison?"

He didn't receive an answer, just bright laughter and another tug leading him towards the food tables. He attempted another sip of the moonwhiskey while Lavellan regaled him with stories of the goddess Andruil's greatest hunt, the reason for the celebration, while giving him sugary fruits and cured meats to munch on. He'd never known much about Dalish mythology, but given how hard Lavellan's accent was to piece apart over the music and through the alcohol, he likely wouldn't be learning anything new anyway.

Regardless, it was rare for Lavellan to say so much all at once and Dorian happily listened away while snacking on whatever was pushed into his hands. He managed to catch something about the Mother of Halla, a hunt that lasted many days, and a feast at the end to rival any other. He let Lavellan's soft chatter wash over him as he sipped at his poisonous drink and nibbled on finger foods. 

Maker whatever this wretched drink was it had him absolutely famished.

Dorian was midway through some sort of toasted bread slathered in sugary ham and apple slices and his second mug of moonwhiskey when an elf called out, "Ha'lam'ghi'lan'niral! The march of the guide will begin in fifteen minutes!"

Lavellan perked up immediately. Hesitantly, Dorian asked, "what was that she just announced?"

"The walk of Ghilan'nain's ascension," he replied, the words catching on each 's'. "We celebrate the pardoning of the Halla by walking in the footsteps of the guide, " he continued reciting, as if it actually explained anything. "It's a competition now, to see who can carry their Halla the furthest. The winner gets their Halla's weight in moonwhiskey."

"There aren't any Halla here?" unless Lavellan had managed to import a few in from the Dales.

Lavellan blinked slowly before making a little noise of belated understanding. "Halla isn't just Halla, it's ah- anyone who is important to you."

Suddenly all the times Lavellan had murmured the word at him in private made sense. "Oh." 

A spike of trepidation tempered from the alcohol shot through Dorian's gut at the thought of Lavellan carrying him. On the one hand, being carried by Lavellan was incredibly hot, since the elf could do it without even breaking a sweat, his gentle hands firm and unyielding as they carried him like the most precious cargo. Pressed against his back, he could feel each flex of powerful muscle, the furnace-hot warmth radiating from his skin, the smell of magic and elfroot and earth against his nose. He'd experienced it all before. He wouldn't mind doing it again. On the other hand… The courtyard was full of people, and such a thing would put their relationship on brazen display. He'd been grappling with the publicity of their relationship for some time, flipping in and out of comfort regarding the spotlight. He couldn't keep things private forever, Lavellan was too large and Tevinter too nosy, but habits were hard to shake.

Dorian was torn between wishing to indulge Lavellan and wishing to hide.

"I should ask Bull to be my Halla," Lavellan said absently, looking around the courtyard for the Qunari.

Just like that his decision was made for him, much to his shock. "Bull! You'd really carry him?" The thought had him burn. Or maybe it was just the alcohol.

"You don't think I could?" Lavellan smirked lazily at him, belying the challenge in his eyes.

If anyone could carry a full grown male Qunari, it would be Lavellan. However, that was hardly the issue.

"I don't see why you would," he huffed instead.

"He's worth the most moonwhiskey." 

"You can have moonwhiskey whenever you want," he countered. "You're the  _ Inquisitor _ , you can have whatever you want whenever you want."

This had Lavellan pausing, brow furrowing as he contemplated this as if it were new information. As if it wasn't the third time Dorian had mentioned a similar thing just this week. But Lavellan always seemed incapable of combining himself and wanting anything in the same thought without a great deal of external influence.

"I can't just ask for it. It's special." Lavellan suddenly gasped, "wait- do you not want me to participate?"

"No! I mean- you can do anything you'd like. Nobody will stop you." He didn't know what he wanted- really. He just wanted Lavellan to think of him some more, selfish and jealous as he was being.

He'd blame it on the literal poison he was sipping on.

Lavellan squinted at him, head tilted in that way that followed most uncomfortable questions. Eventually he smiled softly, " I think I understand. You wish to be my Halla then?"

Dorian flushed, spluttered, "that's not-"

Nodding solemnly despite his smile, Lavellan ignored his weak protests. "Together we will win the competition." He grinned and waggled his eyebrows, adding, "unless you wish to carry me instead?"

"We both know I would end up dropping you. You are absurdly heavy." Perhaps someday he could hold Lavellan in his arms. The thought was thrilling. And exhausting.

"You don't need to worry about me dropping you," Lavellan muttered, grabbing Dorian's hand and leveling him with such an unabashed and painfully sincere look of fondness it had his heart skipping a beat. "I would never let you fall." 

"O-of course. I'd be so very cross with you."

Lavellan laughed and tugged him up and towards a slightly wobbly line of dry pigment in the courtyard dirt. A few other elves were there, couples mostly, Dalish and Grim arguing over who would carry who, and the Iron Bull, with two serving elfmaids on one side and an overly excited stableboy on the other. Their combined weight certainly had anyone else beat.

"Maker, Bull, you've acquired half the staff," Dorian muttered.

"Dorian, Boss," the Qunari greeted. 

Lavellan nodded a greeting back. "You're being awfully ambitious."

The Iron Bull smirked, "don't think I didn't catch that look you had earlier. Unlucky for you, I play to win."

"You want enough to share with your men, you mean."

"That too," Bull agreed with a shrug. "You elves know how to brew some good drink."

"Poison, you mean," Dorian corrected.

"Yeah, but it's tasty poison."

"Of course we do." Lavellan caught himself and frowned, "it's not poison. But this is not just a test of carrying weight, it is also a competition of speed." 

Between Bull and Lavellan, it was clear who was the faster of the two on a good day, and who would likely be faster when laden with living cargo. 

Maker's cock he was about to be  _ carried _ -

The indignity of it all was rapidly pushed from his mind as Lavellan bent and slipped an arm around his legs, hoisting him up. Dorian's arms flew around his shoulders involuntarily- and the indignation came flooding back. Dorian squawked a curse as Lavellan laughed and swayed slightly. 

"May the Guide favor your path," the officiator called out, then burped just as loud, and with that Lavellan was off.

Bull was fast, even with an elf under each arm and a man against his back, hanging on for dear life, but he wasn't Lavellan. Lavellan, who was far too determined to win, who ran with the same intensity he applied to every action, and who still managed to at least make the trip not as bumpy as Dorian expected. Being carried around the courtyard was still awfully bumpy though and the moonwhiskey was not helping his growing vertigo. 

Dorian tucked his head against the swirl of colors and swore heavily as Lavellan bolted across the gardens, dodging planters and people as Bull charged behind him.

But then, seemingly as quick as it started, it was over with a cheer, steadiness, and a rain of flowers, petals, leaves, and the occasional pastry crumb. Lavellan swayed, stumbled, but still held tight as he gasped for breath and let various revelers throw circles of woven vines around his neck and congratulate them with slurring words.

"I think my stomach was left behind somewhere back there," Dorian groaned. 

"You did great though," Lavellan assured him. "You didn't vomit on me once."

"Is that a regular occurrence at these things? On second thought, I'd rather not know."

"You'd be surprised." Lavellan set him down, steadied him (although it made them both tip dangerously sideways), and clumsily shared a few of his viney necklaces as cheers and laughter erupted around them. Somehow despite all the commotion, it was easy to slip away from the crowd and back towards the stone walls. 

"Well you've won your prize," Dorian said, back pressed to the chilly wall and muffled by the Arbor Blessing blooms draped around his neck. "Whatever shall you do with all that moonwhiskey? I'm hardly light."

Lavellan hummed, "it's your prize as well, Ma'Halla. I couldn't of won it without you, after all." He was pressing against Dorian's front as if it was all that was keeping him upright (although Dorian wasn't any better), plucking stray petals from his robes. "It tastes better shared, and we have plenty to go around now."

The band had picked back up, playing an upbeat and fast slightly off-kilter tune that had everyone still sober enough to stand kicking up their feet. It was exciting enough and Dorian wondered if Lavellan would ask him for a dance. He didn't know any elf dances- but between the moonwhiskey and all the boldness, he was feeling awfully adventurous.

"Would you care to dance a little?" Dorian whispered, leaning his face close to Lavellan's ear. "You would have to show me how."

Lavellan looked far too taken with the idea, nodding quietly and slipping his hands into Dorian's. The Anchor crackled, sending little jolts of energy into Dorian's palm and shivering up his arm. Lavellan tugged them away from the wall back towards the party.

It was the kind of thing he'd wish to have painted, immortalized in his memories forever. The hanging Arbor Blessing, the falling leaves and petals and wispy motes of magic, the heady scent of Fade and spice and nature cut with pungent smoke and alcohol. The blur of color and sound, focusing at the sight of Lavellan and his soft smile and gentle hands and clear, knowing eyes. 

Such a moment was broken however, as they stumbled over nothing and fell breathlessly back against a pillar. 

Lavellan laughed, bright and inelegantly, "on second thought, perhaps we should just go to bed, to be safe."

"I can hardly imagine walking up four flights of stairs as being safer," but he had to agree. The courtyard was a bit blurrier than he'd like to admit.

Maker, he'd only had two cups- and his alcohol tolerance was hardly low. 

The fact that they now had a  _ full keg _ struck him halfway up the stairs and had him doubling over with sudden laughter. "Maker, my liver is going to turn into a raisin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes there are elvhen hurdy gurdys no I don't make the rules.
> 
> My take on general alchol tolerances:  
> 1 The Qunari have the highest tolerance  
> 2 Elves  
> 3 Humans  
> 4 Dwarves ( it's a touchy subject)
> 
> Anyways sorry for the wait for such a short chapter hopefully things get easier and faster once we get to Halamshiral :'3


	60. Spar Amongst Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hooooo boy this was actually supposed to be like... longer. 
> 
> But the porn will be next chapter.
> 
> Cw: not sure if there are any! Finally!

The Inquisition was ticking down the seconds until Halamshiral like an anxious clock despite there still being nearly two weeks until it actually began. Lavellan suddenly had even less free time than usual but the workload for Dorian had eased considerably. Instead of accompanying the Inquisitor as he went to physically investigate something, he waited around until someone else came back from doing it, laden with secrets to decipher. The number of capable hands Lavellan had acquired was beginning to look rather lengthy and the intricate work they could accomplish was astounding. They still couldn't find near as much  _ stuff _ as Lavellan could though.

The Inquisitor's reach now stretched to most of Thedas. Starting with Sutherland, who had an equally strange knack for acquiring people, had been sent to the northeast of Fereldan on a recruitment mission and entrusted with an Inquisition seal. He'd risen quickly amongst Lavellan's favored agents and his little adventuring party seemed to multiply each mission. Rhys and Evangeline were off in Orlais solidifying an alliance with the remnants of one of the dissolved Circles and struggling to keep the civil war from pulling any of the loose Templars and Mages into the fray. The red lyrium had spread far, as had the Venatori's influence, and they were invaluable in stemming the tide. Maevaris was on the other side of it too, exchanging letters with both Dorian and Lavellan as she pulled strings in Tevinter. Charter had been sent out on a promising lead for new agents somewhere in the Hinterlands, a team had been assembled to investigate the whereabouts of a certain dwarf friend of Hawke's outside of Kirkwall, and various scholars had been recruited to help with research all throughout the rest of Thedas. 

It was impressive seeing what an organization such as the Inquisition could do. 

"Yet there always is more left to be done," Lavellan sighed during a rare moment of free time, the wind along the ramparts stealing a few of the more wistful notes from his words. 

Such free time was going to become harder to come by until the peace talks at Halamshiral, but Dorian wasn't about to say anything and go ruining the time they had left. He tried to make each little moment they had together count, even if it meant stooping to physical exertion.

Dorian didn't typically do walks, but he hadn't seen much of Lavellan this week and could hardly refuse when the elf stopped by for a distraction. Which led them here, wandering along the ramparts and discussing all manner of whatever crossed their minds. They had already made fun of some of the finer parts of the standard issue Inquisition uniforms, gossiped heartily about various fellow companions, had a light argument regarding who was the better poet ( _ Carmilla Fortilla _ ? Really? She was a  _ hack _ compared to Louise De'Rouve), discussed the latest political moves in Tevinter and Antiva (Lavellan had  _ refused _ to discuss Orlais), and had now settled into mulling the state of affairs in the Inquisition, somehow.

"There will always be more to do, especially if one is particularly noble and kindhearted," Dorian replied, matching the Inquisitor step for step along the stony walls. "However nobody can do  _ all _ of it."

"You are always telling me to pick my battles," Lavellan conceded reluctantly. "It's hard not to want to do more."

A set of soldiers drew to attention as the elf walled by, eyes lingering suspiciously on his companion. They weren't the first to do so during this little trip. Neither paid either soldier any mind.

"Does this mean you are finally agreeing that I'm right and you work too hard?" Lavellan paused and Dorian leaned against the stone ramparts, poorly concealing his smugness. 

"I wouldn't go  _ that _ far," Lavellan slowly admitted.

"Of course not."

"But," the way he rolled his eyes was at odds with the smile twitching the corners of his lips. "I have been admonished a few times lately regarding my work ethic."

"Not just by me, I hope."

"Your voice is the loudest, but-" Lavellan's words cut off as his smile fell. His left ear twitched subtly and he glanced to the side irritably.

Curious as to his distraction, Dorian followed his gaze over to the set of peasants, who were unsuccessfully trying to hide their no-doubt unflattering gossip. 

"I imagine they aren't complimenting our stunning good looks," he drawled.

Lavellan's eyes flickered back to him. "They seem concerned that you are blood-magicking me. They are discussing finding a Templar."

"They are aware that  _ you _ are technically a Templar, yes?"

Lavellan chuckled, "I certainly am. I had a two hour lecture on armor polishing and everything." His ear twitched again, and he shook his head. "They honestly believe you to be so horribly dangerous."

He knew what most people thought of him here in the Inquisition, and paid them little mind. He'd been drinking with half of Cullen's Templars (as well as the Commander himself) rather frequently lately, so they would have a hard time managing to find one eager to lose a gambling companion.

But more importantly "I  _ am _ actually horribly dangerous."

"Compared to the average mage or man, sure," Lavellan replied, shrugging. "But not enough to worry about."

Stunned, Dorian haltingly probed further, "I have magic at my disposal. Powerful and dangerous magic that attracts demons and spirits. You've seen it."

"Oh, I certainly have," Lavellan smirked.

Dorian stared. "Are you certain you are Fereldan? Fereldans are petrified of mages."

Lavellan laughed. "I'm Dalish foremost, and we don't exactly fear mages." Shrugging again he added, "besides, I'm far more dangerous than you. More so if I didn't have the Anchor."

"Now  _ that's _ simply untrue."

"Would you care to prove me right, then?"

Sparring was not a thing Dorian had done since his Circle days, and even then… well it tended to have disastrous consequences for his opponent. He'd sent many a challenger to the infirmary… and to less hopeful places before. Maker, if he so much as singed a hair on Lavellan's head-

"Do you wish for Lady Cassandra to escort me out by the ear?"

"She wouldn't, especially not if we invited her to play referee." Lavellan leaned forward, his smirk still playing at his lips. "And only if you managed to win."

Dorian struggled not to fall for Lavellan's still-surprising competitive streak, but could practically feel himself giving in. It was a terrible idea, but then again Lavellan had a way with pulling out all his worst impulses and twisting them into something better. He could trust Lavellan to smooth things over with any offended party, but-

"I'd very much like to not cause you bodily harm."

Lavellan, like the unbearably soft thing he was, simply shot him one of his heart-meltingly fond smiles. "I'd be more worried about hurting  _ you _ ."

It was such a horrible, stupid idea. But the fact that Lavellan simply didn't fear magic enough, despite having fallen victim to an ancient arcane artifact embedded in his palm, was truly the last straw that broke the mules back, as the Soporati say. More accurately, it was that Lavellan didn't fear  _ his _ magic. 

"Fine. Go find Cassandra then." Was it just him or was he this unconcerned regarding all mages? Was it because he had some cursory Templar training? "I'd rather not get an earful about this later."

"Of course," Lavellan said, brushing a hand against Dorian's as they headed towards the training grounds.

"This is a dangerous idea," were the first disapproving words to come out of Cassandra's displeased mouth. She hadn't shot their friendly spar down, yet, at least. No doubt she was more intent on making them regret bringing it up in the first place. 

"It'll be alright," Lavellan assured. "It'll be good training for both of us."

Cassandra pursed her lips but still regarded them thoughtfully. "The lyrium-"

"Won't be necessary." Lavellan waved his less glowy hand breezily, but his grimace was poorly hidden. "I can handle a spar without resorting to Templaric training."

"If you are sure," she hummed. "Dorian is quite dangerous."

"Thank you," Dorian huffed. At least  _ someone _ here recognized things as they were.

"He is, in some regards," Lavellan replied, smiling happily as he slid a few wooden training weapons from their haphazard storage. "Not as dangerous as you or I, though."

Cassandra arched an eyebrow. "How flattering. But also wrong. I'm almost looking forward to your  _ sparring _ if only to see you change your mind."

"Are there any mages you  _ do  _ find dangerous?" Dorian was still on the fence of true indignation, settling for halfhearted irritation for the moment, but the answer he got would certainly tip the scales. If he so much as whispered the name of a Circle mage-

It got Lavellan to pause with a frown. He shifted uncomfortably before quietly admitting, "Solas. He would best me rather easily."

Solas  _ did _ have a rather… intense aura around him. Dorian doubted he would fare any better. At least he wasn't considered less dangerous than Fiona or any of the other Southern mages. He'd be an embarrassment otherwise.

Outside in the courtyard, Dorian folded up his cloak and set it on a relatively moss-less bench while Cassandra cleared out most of the riffraff. Riffraff who became immediately interested in watching  _ that Vint get put in his place proper by the Inquisitor himself _ . The folks here were so charming. However, he was unconcerned about Lavellan hurting him or besting him in any way. Just the opposite, really. 

Warily, he watched as Lavellan tossed his own furry cloak and silky outer jacket carelessly to the side of Dorian's fine satin cloak. A stiletto blade fell out from a sleeve. He then slid a knife from his back pocket, another from his front, and one last blade from a sheath against his thigh, hidden in the seams, and set them unceremoniously atop his cloak.

"Maker, have you always had so many weapons on your person?"

Lavellan flexed and stretched idly, his sleeveless tunic top leaving his lithe arm and shoulder muscles on full display. He didn't seem bothered at all from the chilly pre-winter breeze. Andraste's pyre if he had to  _ grapple _ with those for longer than a moment he might just die on the spot. "Only a couple. That time you asked if it was a dagger in my pocket I really was telling you the truth."

"It remains one of the least alluring moments of our typically alluring courtship," he groused. 

Lavellan shot him a wink before settling into an easy stance, a short wooden sword in one glowing hand and a series of blunted wooden throwing daggers at the ready in the other. He could already hear the wood begin to warp from the Anchor. The training stave was heavy in Dorian's hand, but he gave it a twirl anyway. "Any particular rules for this little scuffle?"

"Nothing that would make tonight awkward."

Cassandra rolled her eyes at them from a distance.

"Ready?" Lavellan asked.

"Of course." Dorian called forth a barrier as soon as the words left his mouth-

Only to Fade-step to the side instead as a wooden dagger shot straight towards him. Barrier abandoned part way, Dorian had to instead twist the stave up to block a sudden strike at his previously unprotected right side. Lavellan was  _ fast _ and the weight behind his swing left him stumbling back. He had all of a few seconds to process just  _ what _ had happened before that sword was moving again. 

Dorian Fade-stepped back, just far enough to offer a bit of clearance as he summoned a wall of jagged ice. He hadn't needed to cast in such quick succession like this for quite some time and needed a moment to breathe. He knew fighting Lavellan would be different, perhaps a bit more emotionally charged, maybe even a little erotic. Instead he was already starting to sweat and he hadn't done more than deter and stall. 

A crack appeared on the other side of the ice, another following higher up, ending with Lavellan poking his head above the wall, and having the gall to  _ wink at him. _

Focusing, he summoned hasty lines of magic to bloom from the soles of his feet and shaped them into icy glyphs in response. A trick he'd learned when time and writing utensils were in short supply. 

Lavellan whistled, voice laced with admiration. "You come up with the prettiest things."

"Flattery won't get you anywhere with me," Dorian lied with a chuckle. "At least until you concede."

"Tempting," he hummed. Instead of kindly conceding, Lavellan kicked at the wall of ice, made brittle from his climbing attempts. Great chunks of ice fell onto his glyph, interrupting the lines and frosting over the ground before Lavellan landed with a little shiver. "That's still awfully cold."

Dorian had a few options left. He could use Winter's Grasp or Blizzard to freeze Lavellan into immobility- however it would take quite some time for the spells to fully take hold. Time he didn't have, so that side of the Primal school was a no-go. Fire? The fear of accidentally burning Lavellan had him tossing that thought out immediately. Spirit?

Embedding his staff, he tried for a pulse of Force magic, strong enough to have Lavellan stepping back against the remnants of the ice wall. It was a stopgap at best, and already he could see the cogs turning in Lavellan's mind on how best to slip past. There were two other schools he had yet to try.

He was reluctant to use any Necromatic magics on Lavellan, especially if it meant causing any sort… trauma. He called to the spirits lurking at the edges of his vision regardless, only to freeze- 

They didn't even turn to answer him, too focused on watching Lavellan's next move.

Dorian didn't have time to contemplate whatever  _ that _ meant, so instead he took a pause in between pulses to give himself a nice barrier and another to begin conjuring a storm cloud. Electricity was a touchy thing, and he'd need to be careful not to do more than stun. Maker only knew how much Lavellan could take.

Turns out it was a non-issue as Lavellan braced himself against the force magic pushing him back, and managed to take a step forward. Dorian couldn't keep the pressure up forever, and as soon as the pulse faded, Lavellan was bounding forward and tackling him to the soft, muddy ground.

Arcane bolts crackled between his fingers, but Lavellan pressed his wrists down on either side of his head and the sparks fizzled out into the ground. Lavellan sat, a heavy, smug weight on his chest, calves bracketing his hips so even his furious bucking couldn't quite dislodge him. Barriers could only shield damage, and given Lavellan's gentle hold, he realized his miscalculation. 

Lavellan was awfully shrewd. "How dare you get me sweaty outside of the bedroom."

"But you're so handsome when you are sweaty," he replied. "Will you zap me if I let you go?"

"Perhaps. I'm a bit miffed that I didn't even land a single hit," Dorian groused. "You read me like a book."

Chuckling, Lavellan released his wrists to bracket his head as he leaned down, pecking a chaste little kiss to the tip of Dorian's nose. "To be fair, I spend a lot of time fighting alongside you."

"Inquisitor, are you watching me fight?"

Lavellan's cheeks flushed pink, "how could I not? You are  _ very _ distracting in the best ways."

No wonder Lavellan knew he'd go for a barrier first, that he'd Fade-step on his dominant side, how long he could hold a pulse of Force magic, that his lightning would take longer to get ready, that his barriers only could cause damage if he himself suffered bodily harm. It was almost flattering that Lavellan was so focused on him, how he moved and fought, but it also kept him from winning. More so than that, he clearly had plenty of experience in fighting mages. It was hardly a surprise that he wasn't intimidated, not when he was so  _ aware _ . 

"I don't suppose you'd consider a rematch?" Dorian suggested. "I can do much better, I assure you."

Lavellan laughed brightly, leveling him with a mischievous smile. "I might consider such a thing. Tomorrow we can try again. Some extra training would do us both some good."

"When you put it that way…," Dorian scrunched his nose, "I'd rather not."

"What if you fight someone stronger than I am?"

"As nigh impossible as that is, I think at that point I'd simply die." He was being dramatic, sure, but the thought of more frequent bouts of physical exertion leaving him with his back settling into the mud had him thoroughly uninterested. 

Lavellan hummed, settling back into his lap. "I'm sure I could make it enjoyable for the both of us," he purred, voice low under the din picking up.

The noise had Dorian remembering that they had observers, but Lavellan's  _ voice _ had him thoroughly intrigued. That was the voice he used when he had more good trouble in mind. "Is that promise retroactive?"

"Of course."

Dorian sighed, eyeing Cassandra busy attempting to corral the crowd. "Well then, let's hurry and sneak away before the Seeker can give us a lecture."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian, I will only physically exert myself if I'm having sex or running from bears respectively, Pavus and Inquisitor Marion, would probably be a gym rat if those existed in Thedas, Lavellan
> 
> Match made in crossfit hell
> 
> Anyway I'm suuuuuuper tired and just like sped read this so lemme know if there's any typos and such

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
